


Wind Beneath

by miraculan



Series: It's Always Sunny(?) in Elysium [2]
Category: Hades (Video Game 2018), The Iliad - Homer, The Odyssey - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Adventure, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, Hades Video Game Canon Typical Temporary Death, M/M, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Recreational Drug Use, patroclus is and has always been his own man, post Patrochilles reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 56,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraculan/pseuds/miraculan
Summary: A security breach sends Elysium into a flurry of activity, and for all they advertise of peace, Elysian's are drawn to trouble like moths to flame. How else would they have arrived there to begin with?
Relationships: Achilles & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Achilles/Patroclus (Hades Video Game), Andromache/Hector (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Megaera/Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Patroclus & Zagreus (Hades Video Game), Thanatos/Zagreus (Hades Video Game)
Series: It's Always Sunny(?) in Elysium [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2121870
Comments: 225
Kudos: 306





	1. The Tactician, Sly

**Author's Note:**

> Of all the media I've gone through at this point on the topic, I think the Hades video game has the best Patroclus. His voice is super interesting and fun to write, and I wanted to give him a little more independence while keeping the romance front and center!! Rating may go up! (it will.) im a digital artist on tumblr @ miraculan-draws if you wanna chat!

The market district in Elysium was busiest in the mornings.

Or rather, whatever hours Elysians decided was  _ probably _ morning,- that’s when shops opened and the shades who lived closest to the high-rise of the market chose to call on each other for game and sport and social visits. 

The market was as large as several city courtyards, though where surface Grecian cities were clay and packed earth, white pavement and the occasional flourish of marble or lumber, Elysium was made almost entirely of weathered gray stone. It was allowed to crumble in its age, but never collapsed, covered on every surface in climbing vines and the moss that so loved the mist wafting off of the Lethe.

Patroclus did not need for much, nor did any shade here he supposed. He arrived on this particular morning partly out of curiosity and partly out of boredom. Achilles left for the house a little over an hour ago, and Zagreus had grown powerful enough in his escapades that Patroclus presence would not make or break his success. There was no one waiting on him for the moment, so he decided to wander.

He passed a smith of some sort, the hammer falling loud and rhythmically in a mundane sort of way. Not so mundane however, was that he worked not with coal and flame but from magma brought up from Asphodel. Stranger still that the sparks that flew off of it were green, then blue, then white, every hammer fall throwing different colors. The finished weapons on display were the same that the Exalted carried.

Patroclus was better with swords than with a spear, not that he had done much in the way of dueling in his time here. The gear he had now served him well enough, but it very plainly belonged to someone else. Achilles armor was unique enough to be easily recognized, and that was part of the plan to begin with. Dying because he wore it was admittedly  _ not _ part of the plan.

He digressed, he would not mind new gear, but he did not want to look like an Exalted, or fight like they did, -faces shrouded in that odd glamour they wore, nearly possessed by whatever weapon they carried. Lethe-drunk and sadistic, wearing no armor on their backs because they wanted to feel the hit. No, Patroclus did not care for the Exalted. They made his stomach churn.

He shrugged away from the smith. It was no hurry, not a necessity in any case, just a passing fancy. Perhaps the both of them, he and his Achilles, could stand to have new cloaks instead. Achilles could acquire one with a hood, that way he could more easily cover his tell-take golden head as he was want to do in more bustling areas.

There was no shortage of weavers and tailors here, as most shades are often in need of a craft to fill their time, something tangible to show for their work. He kept his eyes open for such a display of fabrics while he stopped to lean over a jewelry display, seeing if any bands or rings were even big enough to consider for himself or for Achilles. They usually were not. The woman at the stand smiled in greeting before turning back to her conversation. She wore many of the rings on her hands and many of the bands on her arms. Patroclus was particularly fond of a silver brace beneath her shoulder, shaped like a coiled snake with little gems for eyes. Displayed to sell surely, but his arm was easily triple the size of her own..

“Is that Patroclus of Opus?” A voice asked, breathless with disbelief but gritty and affable. All yearning for shiny trinkets forgotten, replaced with the urge to kick himself for not making it to the  _ hooded cloaks _ first. “By the gods, it could surely be no one else!” Patroclus turned toward the approaching shade, knowing full well who it was by sound alone. Far more wisened than he was last Patroclus saw him- topside, that is- but still lean and strong in stature. Forever sun-tanned as a sailor, thick hair and beard more salt than pepper. He stood taller than most other shades but still shorter than himself. He was decorated as always in pride and maroon, standing upright and confident as any king would, the bow on his back nearly as long as he was tall.

It was Odysseus, gods curse them both.

He had teased Achilles endlessly when they so deftly outmaneuvered a reunion with the adventurer in the baths not a week past, had been encouraging and soothing after. Achilles feared his own anger, so he hid from it. He was ashamed of the cruelty it had wrought, and so he sought to avoid those who may remember him for only that. Patroclus would not begrudge him. If it meant the wounds would heal, he would protect him from it until it could be observed and dissected and understood, and to understand was to overcome.

Patroclus had no such fears, however, about his own anger. And though he would not tell his love, he might hate Odysseus more than Achilles could ever dream.

_ Patroclus had successfully, after many long weeks, talked Achilles out of the war. They were long time friends at the time, inseparable but new to being lovers; men still shedding the last traces of their boyhood, lean bodied but fresh faced and rosy cheeked. _

_ “I would follow you anywhere,- but what need have we for fame? Is it so cowardly for me to wish to be an old man at your side, watching ocean tides and waiting for you to come back from the wood with a boar to roast on a spit?” Patroclus had asked with a sad smile _

_ “It is not cowardly at all!” Achilles insisted, shaking his head. “My dearest friend, I would never be pulled from your side. But if I am truly needed, could we not earn our glory, and return to your beachside?” _

_ “Glory is short lived.” Patroclus replied grimly. “And those whom the gods love die young. Stay with me. They made their beds, let them lie in it.” _

_ Achilles kissed his hand then, pressing it briefly to his own forehead. “I know you’re right, of course. Wise Patroclus.” _

Even stony Thetis sought to keep her son away from the fighting, once she heard they sought him by name. Always a pretty thing, despite his strength, so she hid him among maidens and princesses in the court of Skyros. A dreadfully clever disguise.

Until ever-clever Odysseus flushed him out. Spun a siren song of glory and fate and destiny, insisted Greece would fall-or be forever at war- without golden Achilles. Oh, and how easy it is to lure young men in such a way. Notoriously reckless, daring and joyous and  _ stupid. _ He preached to him about a duty to his homeland as if Odysseus himself hadn’t done everything he could to stay out of the war, with a trick even more ridiculous than the one Thetis devised. And so Golden Achilles was convinced to fight the Trojans. The rest of the story follows swiftly as a sword on the chopping block. 

Perhaps less important but more maddening was Odysseus among them as a soldier and a commander, seeking ever fondly to take young Achilles under his wing, pulling him this way and that, encouraging risk for reward, pushing Achilles into the arms and into the bed of any passing dignitary, general, king queen or princess, if it meant winning them over to their cause. Turned in the same breath to say there won’t be room in his bedroll for such fair maidens if Patroclus was already sleeping there.

Not that he was the jealous sort. They each visited other beds, and on occasion shared their own, with little preference on who or where or when. It was the disregard for the depth they shared that insulted Patroclus. And here they are, ghosts, one ever young and one ever matured- and Odysseus had the  _ gall _ to be happy to see him?

“Odysseus.” he greeted politely with a nod of his head, not letting a single one of his thoughts be easily read in his eyes or on his face. Sharp-eyed Odysseus, ever calculating. He’d gouge them out if he thought it would make a difference, and sending him down the Styx would only put him in Achilles path at the house of Hades.

“Oh, sweet-voiced Patroclus, seeing you here is a joy, a balm on the heart.” he said through a smile that crinkled his eyes, patting his face and clapping his shoulders in a genuine comradery. His face fell slightly, somewhere between bittersweet and grim. “The whole world felt your absence keenly. It is only just that you rest here.”

“It was not by my deed that I am here, though the story is long. And the gods are very rarely just.”

“My friend, that I know!” he laughed with a good-natured misery

“If you are such an old man before me now, they must not have been terribly fond of you.” Patroclus said with a twitch of a brow. He begrudgingly grinned, against his will, when Odysseus chuckled.

“An astute observation, though I doubt you know the half of it.” he shook his head. “I mean no insult to you when I ask, but I must know: Do you stay here alone?”  _ ” Where is Achilles?” _ the question implied.

Patroclus opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by several startled yells somewhere behind them. As he turned to see what the commotion was, a gust of wind so powerful swooped by that it knocked over two carts and three shades, threatening to knock down Odysseus too if he hadn’t already had a grip on an unwilling shoulder. He followed the crowd's eyes, watching whatever flew by slow it’s ascent to perch briefly on a narrow ledge, near the top of Elysium's ever-reaching walls. It fluttered but for a moment, then darted away, faster than the eye could follow, and far enough away now that it’s wing beats made no breeze. It seemed to vanish into an unknown height, leaving the market briefly quiet as a tomb.

After a half-beat, the crowd erupted into hushed chatter and casual laughter.

_ “Lord Hermes must be running late this day!” _

_ “Mischievous thing, disturbing the peace like that!” _

_ “‘Twas only a large bat-” _

_ “Master Thanatos must be behind schedule, so unlike him-” _

Patroclus noticed Odysseus eyes linger on the same spot his own did, the ledge where the diving creature paused. Something felt odd in the air, not unlike the shiver that heralded Thanatos, though the thing that passed was pale in color. Quick as the messenger himself, though Hermes would never even stop to catch his breath.

“I know creatures yet undiscovered make nests of the Underworld,” Odysseus mused beside him, eyes still glued to the ledge, “but rare are winged things below the earth.”

“Hypnos and Thanatos are winged things, when they have need to be.” he mused in return, convincing no one.

“Are they so swift?”

“Not at all.” Patroclus relented, formulating a daring plan for the day. At least it would kill some time, he thought. “We will have to catch up another time, my king, for something has finally come up in my schedule.” he turned to clasp his forearm with Odysseus, who looked at him with undisguised confusion, sputtering something as he was left behind in the crowd.

Patroclus turned to weave past the market courtyards, having to dive through several streets and squeeze through two alleys in the residentials that lined it to finally reach the stone edge of the realm, looking up at his target. His eyes followed little trails in the rock, making note of every jut and dip and protruding petrified root. His mind took a whimsical jaunt through a memory, back on Pelion with Master Chiron.

_ “The task is not to prove the strength of the body but the swiftness of the mind. It is not the power in your limbs but the way you utilize them.” the centaur said calmly to the two teenagers who looked up at him, one in dawning horror and the other in grim resignation. _

_ “You mean for us to scale the mountain?” Achilles asked, the answer obvious but a desperate mind will seek any alternative it is given. _

_ “I do. Gaia, the Earth Mother, has many treacherous footfalls, many lessons she can teach only brutally. A titan of your own lineage, though distantly, so you should find the task no great challenge.” He spoke as calmly and sage-like as he always did, though at this time Patroclus could swear he saw a bit of amusement in his brown eyes.  _

Patroclus shakes his head at the memory, removing his cloak. The chest piece is not bulky, designed to be purposefully light, but it is snug on him, slows his movements and limits his range of motion. An interesting and obvious thought that he should have had the first time he put it on. He begins unlacing the leather from the sides, now determined to soon get some gear that was made with him in mind. As he hefts it over his head, it makes a mess of his hair, ever wild. He takes a lace from the armor, gathers his hair and loops the leather around it several times, tying down the ends tightly enough that he’ll curse himself for it later. Some hair is bound to escape, but the majority of it will stay out of his eyes. His chiton alone should be thick enough to prevent scrapes on his back and chest, and for the same reason he leaves the bracers on his forearms and shins both. After a brief pause he decides that he’ll be more successful without his sandals, bulky as they are and hard to feel through. 

He plops down on the cold stone to begin unbuckling and unlacing them when a quickened set of footsteps approaches. He throws his head back and sighs through his nose, as if any god above could hear the musing of a shade underground.

Odysseus, of course, had followed him to see what he planned to do. Meddling. He opened his mouth to ask Patroclus his schemes, but froze when he put the pieces together himself.

“You don’t mean to climb up there yourself, surely?” he huffed, shaking his head.

“I surely do.” he said, kicking off his sandals as they became loose enough to do so. He straightened his clothing when he stood, secured a stubborn piece of hair as he tracked his eyes along the wall once more. “You doubt that I am able?”

“I doubt anyone able.” Odysseus assured him. “Seems an excellent way to take a quick dip back in the Styx, and I wouldn’t fancy an audience with the lord of the realm.”

“If something unusual is underway, the lord of the realm should be made aware of it. It would be silly to go to him without first arming yourself with information. Information requires investigation, and thus I will climb the wall.” he gestured, as if it were the obvious thing to do. He can feel the patience of his forced civility wearing thin, and he is starting to suspect Odysseus will not be shooed away like a weathered old dog. On a whim, he grabbed the cloak off of the pavement and tied it around his waist.

He grabbed his first ledge, about a foot over his head, giving a wiggle with as much force as he could manage to test the give of it. Do ghosts weigh anything? Momentarily irrelevant, he decided, as he deemed his hold secure. He hoisted himself up by the strength of his arms alone, before finding a crevice with his foot he could use for leverage, pushing himself over onto the flat of it. He repeated this three more times before he looked down to see his progress, standing about as high as one of the neighboring roofs. 

The ledges narrowed from here, less than his foot’s width, then turned almost immediately to stalactite and gnarled tree root before the ledge he sought to reach. He huffed, pressing himself flat against the wall to creep along the protruding edge. With little vision of his own steps, he had to simply feel around for footholds.

“Have you given much thought to how you’ll get down?” Odysseus called, looking up with his hands on his hips.

“Do you think my head full of air?” Patroclus rebutted, resigning himself to make a sideways lunge-very nearly a jump-and caught himself with his upper body alone before finding a new foothold. There was a wider ledge to his right, but he’d lose some hard earned altitude in exchange for the stability. He took it, dropping down about the length of his body to initiate the second part of the climb. “I am a tactician, if you recall, not a concubine.”

He did not have a plan for getting down.

He looked upward at the first stalactite, unwinding the cloak from his waste and pulling it taut like a rope. It did not have the ideal reach, but it had enough for the task at hand. Probably. With each end grasped in his hands, he threw the fabric up to hook over the jagged rock. He tested the stability again, wincing when he heard the popping of seams, but decided to let the cloak take his weight anyway, climbing up the flat of the wall. Each lift and swing of the cloak to a new anchor had to be swift, not only because the interim left him at the start of a fall each time, but because the longer the cloak took his weight, the more it frayed.

Unfortunate for his current position, standing on a narrow jut of a root with the only surface left to reach his destination. There were no protruding places for the shredded cloak to hook onto, and the wall between him and the ledge smooth as marble. It would have to be a terribly impressive jump. Odysseus was now too far away to hear, thankfully, though he did seem to be shouting something.

His anxiety evaporates like Lethe fog when he remembers that he is dead already. With a shrug and a stretch of his shoulder, he pops his neck once before bracing and lunging.

He catches so much air on the jump that he assumed briefly that he was plummeting, but his hands slap into the jagged stone hard enough to hurt, cutting into the curl of his fingers as he dangles there wishing he was slightly smaller. He heaves, getting his elbows up before slipping on the smooth stone and returning to his original free-hang. The second attempt he pushes himself harder, past the point where he would be able to on a mortal plane,- his elbows cleared again, resting more securely now as he uses the strength in his middle to get a knee on the ledge,-

Before he knows it he’s laying flat on his back on the cool stone, letting the temperature seep into his clothes and calm him slightly. He groans and rubs his face, looking straight up at the crystals that grow of the ceiling and mimic untold constellations. After the brief reprieve, he sits up, looking around the ledge to see if anything could be found of the creature they saw, for he knew it was not Hermes.

There is moss, of course, because there is moss everywhere. Dust, of a sort. Gravel from eroding rock. The only thing of only interest is three broad leaves, looking a little worse for wear, unassuming if not for the color. Vegetation in Elysium has an odd hue, more blue than green at times, so deep as to appear violet depending on where they grow. He ties the abused shreds of the cloak around his waist again, using an innermost fold as a pocket for the leaves that are unmistakably surface green. He makes a second glance around just to be sure, finds a strange stain so close to the wall that he almost missed it. It looks dark on the rock, but stains his hands in a metallic way, gold enough in color to look stark against his hand.

_ “Zagreus bleeds red.” Achilles told him once, though he’d seen him in bad shape more than enough times himself. “Maybe the only god that does.” _

_ “Do gods not bleed?” he asked. _

_ “They don’t bleed red. Nyx-born gods have a strange ink they bleed. It makes their skin look ashen and smears violet when they wipe at it. But the ichor of Olympians is gold.” _

“Never a dull day.” he mutters to himself, glancing down at Odysseus. How to get down now, so he can give his findings to Achilles after he returns, or to catch Zagreus in passing. The cloak was too threadbare now to use, and there would be no efficient climb back down to the market district.

He supposed, however, that there was a  _ very  _ efficient path to the house of Hades. He waves once more to Odysseus with more enthusiasm he had before and a salute before strolling over the edge to plummet.


	2. Cthonic Wares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House of Hades places it's eyes on Elysium

The next time he came to, it was with a harsh gasp- sputtering lukewarm water as fell forward, hands braced on marble steps. He did not need to breathe, but the memory of water in passageways it ought not be in was still panic inducing, the echo of a survival instinct where it was no longer needed. He rested his head on his forearms for a moment, gathering his thoughts and calming his raving dead heart, then standing upright with a sigh.

It was pretty in here, he mused. Dim, in the heart of Tartarus, but made up for it in a plethora of candles. Some of the flames were green, some were blue, all the others as gold as any king's coin. The house was richly colored in jewel tones so deep they absorbed the candlelight, throwing sweet and intimate shadows. Petals covered nearly every surface, ever-falling from some unknown height to decorate the marble. The domain was a hallowed ground, and though it’s residents may think it mundane, it would be impossible for any shade to think it anything but holy.

“Oh hey! I’ve seen you before.” Said a kind voice as he trudged up the steps, ringing bloody water out of his hair. Two figures stood before him, new in their proximity but easy to recognize.

“My Lord Hypnos.” He greeted with a bow of his head. Few gods have been merciful with Patroclus when his life crossed into their sphere of influence: But in afterlife, when he begged for dreamless sleep with teary eyes alone in his little glade, it was granted to him. When sipped from the Lethe to ease the pain and begged to keep the memories, he was allowed to keep them. He had left offerings for Hypnos, but had never spoken to him. Odd then, that up close he looked all the part of a very young man. Heavy lidded and long lashed, eyes a hazy gold that for all their softness pierced to the soul, the same as the pair next to him. A delicate hand very briefly touched under his chin, as if telling him not to bow, gone as soon as he felt it.

“What happened out there?” Hypnos asked, shuffling through his papers. “Someone finally manage to duel you? You could always say no-“ he rambled until he found his paper. “Oh.”

“Clumsy me.” Patroclus tsked, clicking his tongue. “A dreadful fall.”

The second figure must then be Master Thanatos. Hooded, the face that mirrored his brother veiled in shadow, making his own gilded eyes shine ever brighter for it. Thanatos looked him up and down suspiciously, as though he were onto the scheme already.

“Our brother Charon can take you back to Elysium.” He spoke, and so surprised was Patroclus by the quality of his voice that he suppressed a chill. Lower than you would think from his face, droning and calm, unwavering in its stillness. 

“A generous offer,” he said, dipping his head briefly once more, “though, while I am here- there is a matter that requires Lord Hades attention. How would one best gain an audience with him?” He concluded, reaching into the folds of the sullied cloak around his waist to thumb at the gathered leaves, perfectly intact.

“Oh! Well the line’s sort of slowing down for the day.” Hypnos said with a glance in front of him. “There’s no one behind you, so you can just wait same as normal and ask him!”

“Take care, dear shade.” Thanatos said with a nod. “Hypnos.” He said to his brother in a farewell, unfurling those odd spectral wings and vanishing.

_The winged thing in Elysium was not Thanatos, he confirmed._

When he came to the front of the line after a mind-numbing eternity, Lord Hades had not even looked up at him.

“A ferry back to Elysium is it, shade?” He boomed, though more the nature of his tone than the actual effort of volume. He scratched away on his parchment as though it had insulted him.

“It would be a great aid, my lord. But truthfully while I am here, there is a matter that may be of some importance I thought to bring to your attention.” He said, convincing himself that this was the same as speaking to any king. Patroclus was born a prince and bound to another, he’d seen his fair share of royalty, this was the same.

“Is that so?” he began apathetically. “The constant bickering in Elysium is hardly of my concern. If you have such a dilemma with another shade, simply stay out of their path.” Lord Hades finished, with a dismissive wave of his many-ringed hand.

“It is not that, rest assured. I’m sure you must have been made aware already- but just hours ago a great winged creature flew over the Elysian market. It knocked over two carts and three shades in its swiftness, but seemed injured and clumsy.”

Lord Hades quill stopped scratching, his heavy brow raised as he sighed.

“Why no,” he set down his quill, looking down to him with those all-seeing eyes, “it has not been brought to my knowledge.” He placed his folded hands together on his desk, his undivided attention daunting to meet. But so was Patroclus’, so he had been told. He carried on undaunted.

A goddess walked into his vision on his right, absolutely spellbinding in appearance. Dark and glittering, she was, with a face so calm he suddenly felt more at ease with Lord Hades eyes on him. She tilted her head, as if curious to hear more of the story.

“It caused quite the commotion. It is the opinion of most shades that it must have been Lord Hermes, leaving The Boatman’s dock. Some others thought it Thanatos running behind schedule.” He continued. He noticed a figure trying to peer out of the left hall, and he did not need to turn to know it was likely a bewildered Achilles. 

“Is this not the opinion that you share?” The goddess asked, voice quiet as if tucking a drowsy child into bed.

“Master Death is not so clumsy, nor so brash.” Patroclus clarified. “And Lord Hermes would not be so far from the river. Also-” he paused, trying to think of how best to describe a creature he barely saw without sounding a liar or a lunatic.

“The creature paused on a high ledge, flapping in an odd way, as though injured. It left just as quickly as it arrived, and was forgotten by the market crowd.” He finished. Lord Hades seemed to quickly jot down a few key points on his endless supply of parchment.

“Thank you, shade, for bringing this to me. The prince of the realm is in charge of security measures, so I will see that he is made aware of the situation when he returns.” He sighed, even that airy sound low enough to rattle dead bones.

“We should perhaps investigate where the creature landed.” The goddess suggested. “Hypnos could look when he returns home as well.”

“Apologies, my lady.” Patroclus interrupted before Hades could reply. “I did manage to reach the ledge myself.”

He reached into the fold that housed the seemingly indestructible leaves, holding them in his open palm to display them. He noticed now that they were indeed stained with that golden ichor, glittering faintly.

“This was what I found there. It is surface grown, I am sure of it.” He walked boldly forward, having to reach above his head to place the leaves of the desk. Lord Hades looked grim as he moved them delicately with his little finger. “And, from what I am told, few in the Underworld bleed gold.”

“Few indeed.” The lord nodded, even more tense than he was before. “Zagreus is already at the coliseum, he will have to be made aware when next he leaves the temple. I would have this handled swiftly.” he said to the goddess as he stood from his desk, taking his papers with him.

“Achilles.” The goddess asked, the first one to address the guard who had been technically eavesdropping. Her voice seemed ever kind, even in command.

“Mother Nyx.” He replied with a bow of his golden head. _The twins mother, and Boatman’s._

“I would like Theseus made aware of this occurrence as soon as possible, as well as any Exalted you may cross paths with.”

“Of course.” He acquiesced, in good nature, but Patroclus could see the distaste on his face. He was surprised, more than anything, that Theseus served a purpose in Elysium other than being a direct foil to Zagreus and causing a scene. 

“We thank you again, Patroclus.” Nyx said to him, startling him when she called him by name. “I will see that we find a suitable reward for your service. For now, Charon waits.” She nodded, gesturing with an ashen hand back at the Styx.

“You are too kind, my lady. I will take my leave.” He acknowledged with a dip at the waist. He turned to exit, still attempting to wring water out of his clothes.

“Might as well take Achilles with you, shade.” Hades said over his shoulder as he traded his parchment and quill away for a weapon to strap to his back.

“My lord?” Achilles questioned.

“It is practically desolate in these halls, I am certain your post can stand to be empty a little early. Hurry along, then. Go.” He shooed quite literally with his hands, as though they were a flock of troublesome birds. Patroclus had long since been walking to the ferry, and he could hear the quickened gait of Achilles sandals on the rug.

“You will not believe the morning I have had.” Patroclus said, as they stepped onto the boat.

“I’m sure I will.” He laughed. “You look a right mess.”

“Ironically enough, I was in the market to buy clothes, scolding myself all the while for vanity.” He scooted over on his seat, making room for them to sit shoulder to shoulder. “Thank you, dear ferryman.” He said to the grim, yet handsomely dressed fellow. He groaned ghoulish and polite as they set off.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Back at their riverside abode, their own private bathing chamber was as humble as the rest of the house. Well, humble compared to the public bath house. Humble would be a tub full of cold river water, and this was its own room all together. Small, but clearly made for two. There was a wardrobe in here and a vanity as well, filled with all manner of salve and oil, herbs and petals, perfumes and balms. 

Achilles sat on a stool there, free from his armor. He pilfered through the tinctures, overwhelmed and delighted by the sheer quantity. He uncorked to smell them and put them back, his favorites put neatly by the mirror. It was cute, watching him make faces at the ones he preferred and the ones he didn’t. He would probably go back to the ones he set aside to smell them again and-yes, there he went, arranging them by the order of which he favored most.

“So, noble Odysseus snuck up on you while you picked through gems and metals like a little crow?” Achilles teased, turning to the mirror to run a wide wooden comb through his hair.

“Coveting them, more accurately, they were all too small.” Patroclus corrected from his spot in the tub, scrubbing Styx water from the hair on his legs with a soapy rag. Patroclus had honestly assumed the river to only _appear_ red through some easily explained mineral or reflective trick of the light. But no. It was red and it clumped grotesquely. “He recognized me from across the courtyard. I managed to be-.. civil.”

Achilles laughs, picking up one of the vials and weaving its contents into his hair, pulling it apart in sections. “Civil is a many-faceted word.”

“I did not swing at him.” Patroclus replied, the hot water loosening the red stains under his fingernails as he began to scrub at them. “I would have spoken my grievances had there not been a crowd, or had he not seemed so genuinely pleased to see me. I did, admittedly, become terse while climbing the wall.”

“We might yet seek him out, to see what became of your shoes.”

Patroclus chewed his lip, treading lightly when he spoke next so as not to appear insensitive, for Odysseus likely had his shoes and chest plate both.

“At the market, I was searching for cloaks; to perhaps find you one with a hood already sewn in, and one that I may wear in a color not so easy to spot in a crowd.” He started. “I did not find a smithy, but I am also on the hunt for a chest piece that squeezes me less in the middle and under the arms. If you should wander across a craftsman, tell me of him.” He finished with as casual a tone as he could manage. 

Achilles was halfway through braiding his hair, never pausing but heaving a sigh.

“You need not watch your words so carefully, love.” He chuckled morosely. “I am surprised you wore it as long as you have. It is grim to me- to see you in it, not to mention it is surely impractical for you. You were never meant to fight in it at all.”

Patroclus breathed a sigh of relief. Achilles finished with his braid, turning around to toss the comb into the bathwater.

“It reduces my range of motion, admittedly. I am bigger in the chest and in the hip than you are. Not by much, but enough that I removed it to climb.” He said. He began picking the comb through the ends of his hair first, somewhat annoyed that he’d have to wash it again so soon after the last time. It would feel dry and misbehave, but it was also caked in Styx.

Just as Achilles deemed the organization of the vanity a worthy task, a very distant knock prattled rhythmically at the front door, quick but friendly.

“If it’s Zagreus, just let him in.” Patroclus sighed, still working with the comb. The bathwater had long been stained pink. “If it’s Odysseus-”

“Front kick, right hook, obviously.” Achilles replied over his shoulder.

No more than five minutes had passed before Achilles returned, Zagreus in tow shortly behind him as he took his seat back at the drawers and set back upon his task.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?” Zagreus teased, nodding smugly at the rouged bath water. He propped Stygius up against a wall, and plopped unceremoniously down on a cushion.

“Does your divinity grant you some natural resistance and cleanliness, then?” Patroclus retorted with an arched brow.

“No, he’s just always dirty.” Achilles replied before Zagreus could explain. The prince laughed, good natured as always.

“I was going to say if you dry off quickly enough, it won’t stain, but truthfully I’m so used to it I hardly notice. Oh!” he said, with a hand up. “I came to work with you about the market incident.”

“I withheld no details from your father.” he said, letting half his face rest below the water that way he could attempt to rid his beard of residue. If he has to shave it off, he’ll be livid.

“I didn’t think you would.” Zagreus assured. “I just wanted to update you. The Temple of Styx looked like a battleground before I ever got to it today, not more than three satyrs left alive to fight me as I passed through. Cerberus didn’t seem all that phased. When Father met me outside to tell me of the incident, I started to think maybe whatever you saw in the market is what did all the damage at the temple.”

“Likely as not.” Achilles nodded. “That would explain why it seemed wounded.”

Patroclus rose from the bath, toweling off and checking the fabric repeatedly for any pink or red blotches that he might have missed. 

“Your clothes are still soaking in the wash.” Achilles reminded him. “The wardrobe has some basic things in it, but I haven’t properly sorted through them.”

“No matter.” he shrugged, opening to look through it. He put on the first thing he grabbed- a longer chiton than his own, roughly spun and plain, but soft.

“Speaking of!” Zagreus said, reaching to his side as though he had a satchel and pulling something quite literally out of thin air. He stood, presenting it to Patroclus. It was dark and tied with a little gold thread like a parcel. “Mother Nyx sent me along with this for you.” Patroclus took it, noting it felt all the part of folded fabric. He unspooled the cord, stuffing it in a pocket fold in case he could use it for something else. 

He unfolded it, watching it pour out in drapes. It was so deep of a blue that he originally thought it black, richer than any royal dye he’d ever seen. There was a trim on one side, a dull gold woven in with a short fringe hanging loose from it. As he pulled it completely apart, something sturdy nearly fell to the floor before he caught it in one hand. A small medallion, the gems inlaid so twinkling of a yellow-gold it would put Charon’s Obol to shame. When he turned it over, he realized it was a pin. The gift was a cloak, and this was the pin.

“What a handsome gift..” he mused, truthfully. So much so that it baffled him. The fabric swallowed light when he turned it just right, but from a distance or a glance just seemed a divine quality dye.

“Is that a real shroud?” Achilles asked, head swiveling from the fabric to Zagreus. 

“It is!” Zagreus nodded excitedly. “A night shroud! They have power in them, for stealth or for protection. Not to mention they are terribly pretty.” As Patroclus began wrapping it over his shoulders, the prince turned his attention to Achilles.

“And _you-”_

“Be delicate with me.” Achilles begged drolly, eyes suspicious.

“At least until we get this mess sorted, guardsman, you are posted in Elysium.” the prince spoke with a rare air of authority, but his eyes glittered with glee and no small amount of mischief. Achilles raised his brows waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it didn’t, he laughed so brightly it was a shock to the system, lit up like the sun like he used to be. Even Zagreus' smile grew more genuine at the sound.

“You mad bastard.” he chuckled, with a smile that finally reached his eyes. “How did you manage that?”

“This is a security issue, is it not?” Zagreus bounced on his heels. “I am Head of Security.”

“You are unwavering in your kindness.” Patroclus said, near overwhelmed with delight. “Should you need my aid with your task, son, you have it.” Patroclus swore, striding up to the prince with an uncontrollable grin, clasping him by the arm and clapping him on the shoulder. “Our patron God of Rebirth, ever doting.”

Achilles laughed at the display, standing to roughly tousle the flustered prince’s raven head as Patroclus released his grip, pinching Zagreus’ cheek to watch it go Styx-red. 

“Come on then, lad, let us feed you before you go.” Achilles said, leading them all out of the room. He turned over his shoulder to look at the cloak again. “A very handsome gift indeed. Your quest to find a smithy becomes all the more daunting, now that the armor underneath will have so much competition.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the love! I'll probably post art from this series at some point over on tumblr, you can find me there at miraculan-draws!


	3. Silver, Bronze, Gold, Violet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fond memories, and a trap to set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet! The next chapter will probably be a hefty boy. ALSO we all love the mentor relationship between Achilles and Zagreus, but I feel like the most brutal theme from the Iliad (also slam dunked by miller in the song of Achilles) is the conflict of "living peacefully to old age in obscurity" against "seeking glory and dying young and bloody". In aging Achilles up, we got to have this mentor/student or father/son relationship with Zagreus, but I think a little of that original conflict's potency is lost. Am I overanalyzing? Of course I am but I have Symptoms and Syndromes and a Boring Job.

If one were to look very closely, Achilles looked like a nereid.

Not completely, of course. He was only slightly less mortal than his father, despite the many famed efforts of his mother. One would have to purposefully seek out the oddities, only truly obvious to those who already knew they would be there. Patroclus knew.

His teeth are a touch too sharp. Not front and center, just the few on the sides- an extra set of canines that could only be seen when he smiled wide, or threw his head back on a laugh or on a battle cry. His ears come to a very subtle point. His eyes reflect strangely at night. His voice cuts through to the bone in a way soft things did not, in a way that made you listen with your full attention. It is gentle when he speaks, but unmistakable when he sings.

He’s singing now, but he does not yet notice that Patroclus is there.

Since Zagreus had posted the guardsman in Elysium, Achilles made a habit of doing a patrol early in the day through the market and through the high tier. He often left before Patroclus truly awoke, kissing him goodbye while he grumbled into the pillow. Today, however, Patroclus has been the one to rise early and make a sweep for the winged thing. Another quiet walk, with no more sign of trouble, though several shades stopped him to tell him of sightings. Another in the market, one outside the Arena, several along the Lethe. Right under their noses, but with no more physical description than before.

Patroclus rounded into their little glade along the main path, eyes up as he walked the stone path leading back home, when he froze in place. 

There would be no mistaking it. Achilles was singing. So sweet a sound, he melted in the middle; ached in the ever-tender place under his sternum.

It had charmed Patroclus when they were boys, and he always asked songs of him when they had a rare moment of stillness amongst their mischief and adventuring. He would carry a lyre with him then, if he thought there might come a time in the day where he could sit in the shade and play it. His voice was bright and sharp, in the way that children sing, but he never mistook one note for another. He never wavered or struggled, never accidentally soured. When they grew he seemed to falter, losing it briefly to the pitfalls of cracks and full-stops and accidental whispers of a changing voice. He caught it again on the rebound, when they were on Mt. Pelion. 

They were maybe 16 or 17 then, resting under a fig tree after a brutal summer day of training. The shade was warm but cooler still than being under the sky. Achilles, his back to the trunk, began singing some lilting summer song. Quiet, at first, as if he didn’t want to disturb the peace, but it grew in strength just as he had.

Patroclus had laid in the grass with his head resting on his arms, his face turned away from Achilles. His best friend in the world, his brother in arms, the one person in the world who knew him best- and here he realized he had fallen so fiercely and tenderly and deeply in love with him that he didn’t know what he would do. With his face in his arms as it was, it was easy to hide a tear that fell, but he made himself listen- told himself to pay attention, in case this was all that ever came of it. Achilles, his once sharp silver voice turned bronze by the summer sun.

Oh, but now they were invincible, they were ghosts, they were battle-scarred things with teeth and claws, they were soulmates. Standing outside their little house, listening with watery eyes like a boy, and Achilles’ voice- long rendered hoarse from howling rage and sorrow at the moon like an animal, - was  _ golden _ .

Patroclus pushed the door open as gently as he could, trying not to interrupt. His love was, predictably, sleep-mussed and half dressed. His hair was wild and falling out of its braid, one hand rubbing a sleepy eye. Less predictably, he seemed to be at the beginning of embroidering one of their pillows with a spool of white thread, singing all the while some sweet and meaningless little working song, something old women would sing amongst themselves. It was low and saccharine, rising and falling steady like ocean tide. The last note shimmered and shivered in the air and hummed in the walls, settling into the wood even a beat after the song was over.

“Good morning, beloved.” Patroclus cooed helplessly from his place at the doorway.

Achilles jumped with a yelp, but calmed when he saw it was only him. As he realized Patroclus must have been listening, he blushed high on his cheeks, fully awake now, and  _ whined.  _ He covered his face so quickly, and only just managed to move the hand that held the needle aside so he could promptly slam his head into the pillow that rested in his lap to hide the blush.

Patroclus spent the rest of the morning kissing and cooing and only a little bit crying. Achilles confessed that the only time he had sang since they’d been apart was to put a very young Zagreus to sleep, and in turn Patroclus confessed that he dreamed of hearing him alone by the Lethe. He had wrapped himself around Achilles back with his arms around his middle, wanting to be close but not in the way. 

“It is going to be a dove.” He said, gesturing at the needlework.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was later enough in the day to call it some semblance of evening, when a very bloody Zagreus came into the glade with tell-tale cacophony. They bade him enter when he knocked, Patroclus half-asleep on the chaise in a nest of cushions, Achilles behind him in the kitchen. (He had found a little grove that grew an Elysian fruit, too large to be a berry but smaller than a fig. It’s skin was black as night, and the flesh inside sweeter than honey- though it stained Achilles mouth and fingertips a pretty violet. It did not seem to slow him, as he was still in the kitchen with the bowl.)

“It is most kind of you to invite me into your home, gentleman,” Zagreus panted sarcastically from the doorway, “but I fear I will bleed stains into your floorboards.”

“Blood washes if you do it right.” Patroclus assured, stretching his arms and legs before rolling off of the chaise to make the prince sit on the rug. Achilles continued snacking with purple fingers and lavender teeth as Patroclus gathered the first aid kit that only Zagreus had use of.

“What did you in like that, lad? I thought you said only the Temple gives you trouble these days.” Achilles asked. 

Patroclus mused to himself, and only himself, that Achilles had chosen a short and glorious life, which in lies their tragedy. Miserable and weary when they reunited, surely, but not wizened. In front of him now, well-rested and finally healing, and berry stained- he looks the part of a man who barely passed thirty winters before Fate and Apollo cut his string. Zagreus, in turn, is no longer a juvenile prince with baby fat on his cheeks and something to prove. He is a god beginning to know his place in the bigger picture, one who is starting to feel around for the edges of his domain. He is sharper in the face and the eyes and the grin. They no longer look the part of men who call each other ‘lad’ and ‘sir’, though they may never break the habit.

“Well, I’ve been testing new security measures, and there’s always the pact.” Zagreus winced, mostly at the sight of Patroclus approaching with the unpleasantries of battlefield medicine. “The last chamber of Exalted was  _ brutal _ though, all semblance of sportsmanship gone.”

“Did they have so much to begin with?” Patroclus asked, sitting down on the rug with the prince. There was a gash on his back that was going to need stitches. Maybe more than one.

“I guess not. I could have sworn that the last group was,- well, not  _ drunk _ , but they moved strangely. Can the Exalted get drunk? There’s nectar and Ambrosia to spare in Elysium, but I can’t imagine them celebrating every fight. They would have less time for  _ more _ fighting.” Zagreus hissed when a stronger and more earthly brew than nectar was used to clean the mottling of open wounds on his back.

“They’re just masked shades. It is a glamour they wear to hide their features, but I’ve seen them remove it.” Achilles said. “They make a motion like rubbing their hand down their face, and it just peels off. Underneath they’re messy and sweaty, like they’ve been under a helmet for a long while.”

Achilles absent-mindedly reaches his hand into the bowl of fruit only to hit empty clay. He pouts, as though someone else had eaten the last of them without him knowing.

“Really?” Zagreus asks with a tilt of his head. “I suppose maybe they had something to celebrate after all. Ow.” Patroclus was sewing a particularly deep wound shut.

“Looks like they can shoot just fine drunk.” He mused as he tied off the stitches.

“Yes, the archers were particularly bold this evening. Or morning. And the bright swords must have thought it awfully amusing to try and sneak up on me instead of charging.” Achilles seemed to linger on it, brow pinched for a moment before relaxing again, meeting a similar expression on his partner's face. 

“That ought to keep you in one piece so you can water the flowers.” Patroclus sighed, patting the prince on his less injured shoulder before standing up.

“I might make it, if it wasn’t so hard to find the Kiss of Styx lately. Charon’s been all empty, too, not just the lock box you leave me.” Zagreus lamented, missing his own hair. “Where do you even get it from?”

“I put the Kiss in the lockbox when I patrolled this morning. I refill it every time you take one.” Patroclus insisted, confused.

“I haven’t been through the glade the last few runs. And the two before that, the lockbox was empty.” Zagreus replied, his tone turning a bit more serious. “I had assumed it a shortage in the realm.”

Patroclus chewed on the information, mind running a mile a minute. He checks the lockbox every time he passes it, and refills it when it looks like Zagreus had been through. He’s refilled the Kiss of Styx every morning for the last five days, and here the prince sits saying he’s not tasted of it in weeks.

“Seems that maybe our mystery guest has been right on our doorstep.” Patroclus sighed.

“Aye.” Achilles nodded. “And willing to jump through hoops not to meet face to face with Lord Hades, even if it would mean a full heal.”

Zagreus stood, wincing only a little but enough to notice. He scratched at his cheek, a boyish gesture, and yawned.

“Rare that you get so tired out.” Achilles said, rising from his stool and walking into the living room. “Rest in here for a while, let the wounds heal some. If you’re amenable, it seems we have some bait to set in the morning.”

“There is a spare blanket on the back of the chaise, and another on the sofa.” Patroclus gestured.

“I don’t need sl-EE-“ he was interrupted by a round cushion, thrown with deadly precision and unstoppable force into his face.

“You can either  _ go  _ to sleep or I will go  _ get  _ him.” Achilles threatened. “Not having to sleep because you’re a god and not having to sleep because you are perpetually manic are different.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I am feeling slightly fatigued.”

“You better.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Adventurer, Witty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bait trap is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am starting to think this is going to be a long story, and I'm really excited! Now that the foundation is up, most chapters will probably be around the length of this one.

True to his word, it seemed the prince did not indeed sleep that night.

“Sir.” A voice whispered, a finger prodding him on the forearm. He prided himself once on a warrior’s light sleep, always ready to leap at the first sign of a threat. In death it seemed his nerves had no reason to be nervous. With all his strength he peeled open one eye to look up at Zagreus, who looked completely healed from his wounds.

“Hng?” He managed. He noted that the pseudo-sun had not yet spilled through the window, meaning it was well before dawn. Patroclus had assumed he would be the one needing to wake the other two men, but had also assumed that dawn would have been more than plenty early.

“Where do you keep the Kiss of Styx? I’ll put it out in the lockbox.” The prince whispered.

Mind still at a crawl, Patroclus belatedly realized that Achilles had worked his way into his chest sometime in the night, forcing his lover to rest his chin on top of his head. That’s why it had been so hard to  _ see _ Zagreus, he was trying to look through the wilderness of Achilles' bed head. A tender embrace would not have embarrassed him in life, soldiers and kings had seen them similarly. But here, he and Achilles had fused a little around the edges again, throwing just a little bit of that fractured sunlight that had so moved them the first time. He found comfort in the knowledge that it was a god who could see them melded so, no intruding soldier or apathetic king.

His question, the prince had asked him a question.

“So early?” He questioned, his voice hoarse with sleep. He swung a hand down to his love’s head to hold Achilles hair away from his face.

“Well, what time do you usually go?” He asked.  _ His red eye reflects in the dark like a cat’s _ .

“Usually not long after Achilles leaves to patrol the Tiers.” Patroclus muttered. “I know not how long the thief waits or watches,- but if it is so routine, they’ll be waiting at the same time as always, and then watching for me specifically.”

“That makes sense.” He sighed, roughing his own hair. His eyes landed briefly on the places where the lovers were more celestially twined, but didn’t linger or seem confused.

Patroclus presumed tales of the Prince’s restless nature to be largely exaggerated, but it seems they do not embellish. Odds are Zagreus had been awake the whole night, itching to put their plan into play.

_ “‘sn a lff cub?”  _ came Achilles tactful reply.

“What?” 

He lifted his head a little, his hair comically wild and eyes still firmly shut even as he pouted at the prince giggling at him.

“It is in the left cupboard.” He clarified.

“Oh, so you heard that but not any of my important rebuttals?” Pat pulled back slightly, but quick as a whip the prince was already out of the bedroom and rummaging around in the kitchen, making a muted ruckus. “Up. Up. Achilles-  _ off _ , up up.” He wiggled out of the blanket, doing his best to disturb his bedmate as much as he could.

His feet had already hit the floor by the time the other so much as rolled over, and he padded over to tie on a robe. He threw the other one with a little too much zest at an almost-upright Achilles, who fell back over with an  _ ‘oof’ _ .

Zagreus had thankfully not rushed into the glade without them, and instead was placing the Kiss of Styx on the table gently while his other hand was busy shoving dates and walnuts into his mouth. Patroclus sighed in relief even as he rubbed his face in exasperation, pressing his hands into his eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t going to go without you.” Zagreus laughed around a cheek full of walnuts. “You’re right, it would prompt suspicion to break the routine you set. Which means Achilles still needs to be seen leaving, and that you have to be the one to refill the lockbox.”

“You are going to gray my hair, Zagreus.” Pat said miserably, letting his hands drag down his face to scratch at his beard.

“My mother said those exact words to me not three days past. It must be an inherent skill that I have honed.” He replied with faux-haughtiness, sitting at the table and examining the Kiss of Styx more thoroughly.

“Or a skill you were taught by your mentor, and you are simply a prodigy.” Pat nodded solemnly, walking to the living space and lounging on the chaise while his adrenaline levels evened out. He had so vividly pictured trying to either race Zagreus into the glade or fighting an unknown but large monster with a spear but no clothes. 

“Oh, how the tables have turned.” Zagreus chided with a smirk at Achilles sleepy approach. “Did I wake you, sweet prince? Training started a half hour ago, you owe me ten laps.”

From the disheveled and disgruntled expression on his face, Achilles must have spoken those words to his protégée verbatim, at some point.

“How soft.” Patroclus mused. “Master Chiron would have dumped water on your head.”

Achilles huffed out a laugh before taking a few of the dates to snack on, leaning heavily on the table but not sitting. He probably knew he’d fall asleep again if he sat, though he has managed it standing before. He was halfway dressed, to his credit. His chiton was on, but it was a short one. He must have it in his head to wear his leathers, then, not wanting the length of his normal clothing to slow him down if there should be a fight.

Patroclus remembered that he still did not have armor. Perhaps with the Night Shroud he had been rewarded he would not garner too much attention. Especially not with Achilles on the field, and  _ especially  _ not with Zagreus on it. He should be free to prowl as he pleased, as was his way. 

Oh, how he missed  _ swords _ . He had to duel a few unfortunate Exalted here, and one shade who claimed Patroclus had slain him in life. (Patroclus did not recognize him.) He managed perfectly fine with a spear when it was the only thing available to him. He liked the reach, he supposed. But he had been untouchable with blades- ambidextrous, a short sword in each hand. He never carried a shield, though he might have lived longer if he had.

“I should have thought to get more gear at the market yesterday. It completely slipped my mind.” He huffed at the ceiling.

“If I am to leave the valley as part of the plan, you can send me for something.” Achilles offered, looking more awake by the minute.

“Leathers at least.” He decided. He would have to commission a full chest piece, metal or leather, so that it would be the right size. The leathers- belted around the waste- could be adjusted just fine. He still had bracers for both the arms and the legs. And while he knew Achilles could gauge the quality of a blade, Patroclus would want to do it himself. He would have to feel for balance in both arms. 

“I know where to get them. It shouldn’t slow me down.”

“We don’t actually know when the thief comes to the lockbox. Would you not need to be waiting with us as soon as it’s set?” Zagreus asked. Achilles mulled over it, turning his head this way and that and then shrugging.

“If the thief is so poised to watch for Pat to refill it, then it can just be refilled after I return, can it not?” He questioned both of them.

“True. It is not as though I maintain so rigid a routine to begin with. As long as you are timely, it should be no trouble.” Patroclus replied, noting that the color of the light from their windows was warming. Zagreus seemed fascinated by it, and Achilles went to go put on the rest of his effects.

“Haste, soldier, with a will.” Zagreus called dryly to his retreating back.

“Kiss my ass.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

All going smoothly so far, Achilles had walked out of the glade and a reasonable while later transported back into the house with gear in tow. Patroclus, already in a chiton and the bracers he still had, wasted no time buckling the leathers around his hips. 

The ones Achilles wore now were made of a great many studded strips, a single wider panel over the groin. They were short, made with his speed in mind, keeping as much leg free to move as possible. The ones that had been acquired for Patroclus were heavier and longer, but much sturdier. They had panels on the sides of his hips as well as the one in front of the groin, and the belt itself was worn high enough that his lower belly was also protected. They were well made, and he was quite pleasantly surprised.

“I grabbed this also, while I was there. I imagined it would serve well enough while you searched for something else.” Achilles said, holding up more leather.

It was a sideless torso piece, the kind composed of one flat piece in the front and one in the back, - attached to each other by shoulder straps and fastened to the body with ties on the sides. 

“A good find indeed. It’ll serve perfectly, thank you love.” He said genuinely, slipping it over his head while Achilles helped tie him in on one side as he worked on the other.

“Now there’s two men who look like they can actually fight.” Zagreus grinned. “The chiton you wear at the house is so long and narrow I can’t imagine even being able to take a full stride.”

“Yes, but the color makes my eyes look nice, so it balances out.” Achilles deadpanned as he finished the last tie. “You speak of practicality- only foreigners wear leggings like those, because their lands are forever cold. You put them on and then go frolicking about in Asphodel just so you can complain about the heat.”

Zagreus sputtered, scrambling to defend his fashion choices while Achilles plucked at his apparel and barreled through all of his disputes with a calm that must have been truly maddening.

“You are both very pretty boys.” Patroclus sighed, strolling closer to the door and grabbing the shroud off of a hook. “We can make flower wreaths for your beautiful heads when our task is complete.” He chided with fondness.

Achilles rolled his eyes and followed, while Zagreus actually seemed somewhat baffled and slightly put out.

“But my head is on fire.” He pouted, disgruntled at his inability to weave flowers into his hair.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

With the Kiss of Styx in hand, Patroclus meandered as usual to the lockbox in the glade, going over the plan in his head as he walked.

Patroclus would place the vial in its proper place, and walk back as though he were returning to the house. He would instead linger in the high vegetation that surrounded it, its color bruised and dark. The shroud and his hair amongst the backdrop should completely camouflage his silhouette as long as he stayed low. Achilles was at the very edge of the room, near the chamber’s exit amongst the pottery and urns. He was not exceptionally covered, but his stillness mimicked the statues of similar height around him. Zagreus was the closest to the bait as well as the most hidden, having brought his own Shroud to cover his starkly sanguine appearance as he crouched amongst stones and moss.

Should the bait be taken, Zagreus would pounce at his discretion. He is flashy and brightly colored, dressed in flame and hard to ignore, therefore Achilles should still have the same element of surprise to Rush into the fray should it be needed. The two princes are fast and disorienting- and should even further assistance be required, Patroclus could likely engage entirely unnoticed.

Vial placed, lid shut, he returns to his post to crouch and wait.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was impossible to have any sense of time once outside the house, as the sunlight illusion seemed to be sourced from windows. Out here in Elysium at large, it remained its steady evergreen blue. If Patroclus had to guess, it had been at least three hours. Long enough that his crouch turned into a sit.

He couldn’t see Zagreus from here, but he could see a sliver of Achilles propped up on his spear. The biggest change in Achilles was being demonstrated before him now, and it was  _ patience. _ He did not huff and puff and shift his weight, he did not complain in hushed tones and break strategy. He simply waited, eyes wandering freely but as still as any stone likeness that kept him company over there. 

Patroclus felt a butterfly land in his hair, but he left it alone. He had spent so much time sitting in absolute quiet and stillness all those ages by the Lethe that they must have gotten used to him. They landed on him as freely as they would a rock or a patch of moss or a statue. He talked to them sometimes; they were human souls, were they not? He might have wanted someone to treat him like one, if he was in their place. It may have been a coincidence only, but after that sometimes he could handle them. If he placed his hand in their path they would crawl onto it, on occasion he could offer his arm to land on. The one on him now had clambered over to his face, and though he could not break the silence to laugh, he smiled wide at the tickle as it walked delicately to the end of his nose. He made a little kiss at it, and it fluttered off.

The peace was broken by the chamber door closest to Achilles sliding open. Patroclus had been keeping his eyes upward, assuming the thing would swoop from a great height as he did with its debut. He didn’t expect it to come strolling through the front door.

And it didn’t. The intruder at present was no less than  _ nine _ Exalted.

Patroclus cursed to himself, quickly scanning over the group with as much diligence as he could manage. Four archers. Three swordsman. Two shields. They didn’t speak amongst themselves like normal. They were walking in an unusually set pattern, almost like they were in formation instead of spread out trying to steal kills from each other. Despite their organization as a unit, as individuals they seemed..sloppy. They would stumble but never fell, and their movements were eerie and jolted- Slowed to a languid crawl but with bursts of speed that made him nearly nauseous. Zagreus had said last night that the Exalted he crossed acted drunk. He was wrong. They acted  _ mad. _

Achilles seemed to be trying to make telepathic eye contact with Zagreus, and it seemed it was not working. If he had to hazard a guess, he was trying to tell him to forget the plan and not engage at all. This would be the best case scenario, from a tactician’s perspective, though if Zagreus did indeed initiate, they could follow the same basic strategy as before. It would just be especially grueling with archers. He gripped his spear and raised soundlessly back into a crouch.

One of the bright swords came upon the lockbox like he had done it a hundred times, tucking the vial away into an ether as though he had a pocket. With grim acceptance he watched, almost in slow motion, as Zagreus broke his cover. In one motion he leaped, his Shroud sliding off his shoulders with the movement. He brought Stygius overhead at the height of his jump, then with his strong arm and a spin, brought it down onto an armored shield at landing.

And so they begin.

He watches Zagreus for a while in anxious delight, and feels guilty for being entertained. He’s  _ everywhere at once _ , wailing on the shields to break their armor and then dashing to interrupt the attack patterns of  _ one-two-three _ Bright Swords before they can land a hit on him, then turning back to the shields. He’s holding back, purposefully. If he takes them down far enough, they’ll take a soul form, and the soul forms can regenerate to full health. The first one he manages to fell, he does in a unique way. He disarms them after a cruel blow, using their own sword to pierce through the leg and into the ground, quite literally pinned in place. For good measure he bashes them with the hilt of Stygius, knocking them out cold. After that particular maneuver, he nods subtly and tosses his head.  _ Ah, a demonstration. That’s one. _

Achilles takes the instruction as his queue, bolting forward with that tell-tale inhuman dash. (Zagreus had affectionately named it Rush) As planned, the Exalted do not expect him, nor can they feasibly track him to lead their shots. He takes out a second swordsman exactly as Zagreus had- _ number two-,  _ and tries with every golden sweep to do some damage to the shields, and manages to break the armor fully on one of them. Zagreus sees the opening and takes it, leaving his engagement to eviscerate the target. This one he does let fall into a soul form, but he slays that too.  _ Number three. _ Another instruction, it would seem. Keep a few, but the rest can take a dip in the Styx, and Lord Hades may interrogate as he pleases. They’re halfway through the armor of the second shield before a swordsman shouts, in that strange warbled voice-

_ “Aristos achaion!” _

Every archer turns to take aim at Achilles.

Patroclus sighs, popping his neck and rising. He edges along the stone wall of the chamber, his focus on taking out the archers one by one without alerting the others. He makes note of their positions; the two closest to him are so heavily damaged from the Prince that they’ll go down in one hit. The one making the most shots at Achilles feet is perched on the base of the biggest statue, so he has the widest field of vision with his high ground. The one remaining-

The one remaining is steady.

The fourth archer is firing at a snail’s pace. He holds his full draw, tracking Achilles but never loosing the arrow. He deftly avoids the attention of the prince, simply by willing himself unnoticed. His bow looks plain compared to the others, but doubled in size. Patroclus watches with his spear prepared to throw as this archer finally prepares a leading shot, waiting until Achilles crosses just so-

And fires his shot into the soul form of the second shield, slain in one hit.  _ That’s number four. _

Patroclus practically growls through his teeth, gripping his spear with both hands like it was a battering ram and running it through the two archers closest to him. Weakened already and now fully impaled, they choke and stutter and change their shape, and only take an angry kick each to finish off.  _ Six. _

_ Clever-clever, always clever, tricky, sly, pompous, arrogant, tricky tricky tricky- _

Patroclus walks deeper into the fray, announces his presence by throwing his spear through the high archer and calling it immediately back to his hand. He timed it perfectly, the brief invincible shield he can maintain deflecting the arrow right back at his target. He strode up, grabbing them by the leg and pulling them down with a harsh tug. They landed flat on their stomach with a heavy thud, and Pat grabbed an arrow out of their quiver and slammed it through their left shoulder and into the dirt, pinned.  _ Seven. _

Zagreus and Achilles, with the coordination of dancers, pierce through the last soul form-  _ eight- _ just as Patroclus reaches Archer Number Four. He drags him out into the open by the shoulder at the same time that Zagreus asks-

“Where’s number nine?” he panted at Achilles in a panic. The field is quiet now aside from the grumbling.

“There were only eight.” Patroclus replied casually, pushing his captive harshly to land mostly on his face in the grass. He raised up a bit, spitting moss and dirt while he caught his breath- cursed and rolled over flat on his back. Pat crouched down, yanking off the glamour over his head with little flair.

“I would have brought out wine, had I known you’d be visiting. And the house is such a mess, you would not believe.” Patroclus tsked, gazing down at a winded Odysseus. Achilles raised his face to the absent sky, perhaps in hopes Apollo will once again grant mercy.

“If I knew it was yours, I would have knocked.” Odysseus replied, indeed looking the part of one that had been sweating under a helmet. “It is a lesson I have learned the hard way several times.”

As Patroclus stood to observe the unconscious Exalted, Achilles reluctantly reached to help the adventurer to his feet. He looked odd wearing their strangely marked clothing and armor.

“Achilles, dear boy.” he greeted as he stood, with such a sad smile on his face. Odysseus’ fondness for him in life was genuine but crooked, and here it seemed hopeful but wounded. 

Patroclus began dragging the remaining Exalted all to one place, propping them upright-ish against a boulder. Zagreus approached briefly, poking each one dead center in the forehead, leaving bloody prints behind. At Pat’s questioning face, he explained.

“That will keep the wounds from killing them.” he began almost hesitantly. “But they won’t regenerate any health. It’ll go to me instead, to help me heal faster.”

“Who are you working for?” Achilles asked.

“For Theseus. He wanted an investigation on the creature from the market, and had quite the handsome reward.” Odysseus replied. “Who are you working for?”

“For the House of Hades of course.” Zagreus said with his sharp-toothed grin. He strode back over to join them while Patroclus lingered. “I am Zagreus, Son of Hades. The security measures and investigation into the market incident are my responsibility.”

“And your jurisdiction.” Achilles complained, biting the inside of his cheek. “A fact I reiterated to Theseus very thoroughly, and more than once.”

While they discussed princely goings-on, Patroclus set to removing all the glamours on the Exalted. Two young men with curly hair and strong noses, an old man with the scars of a veteran, and a middle-aged woman who looked wrinkled by sun and hardened by labor. Nothing seemed particularly out of the ordinary. One of the younger men grumbled, startling Patroclus. He gripped his spear but the shade only rolled his head over to one shoulder, exposing his neck, and deciding to remain at rest.

There was something in the side of his neck, though. It was long and sharp, something truly embedded there. Patroclus wondered briefly if it was a dart, something that held a poison. It made him wary of grabbing it with his bare hand. He used the edge of his shroud to protect his hand as he secured his fingers around it and then yanked it out as quickly and painlessly as possible.

It was a ruddy red at the very tip, but not from blood. Shades don’t bleed. The rest of it was the same lush green that the leaves had been. Surface grown, but this was no leaf. It was a thorn. Upon closer inspection, they all had them, and so he removed all of them. He held them as gently as he could in one palm, worried what would happen if he were to accidentally pierce himself.

“Do any of you have a rag or a slip of fabric?” he asked over his shoulder. Zagreus handed him a scrap of bandage gauze, and he felt safer carrying them now that he had a layer between their points and his hand.

“I will bring the message to Theseus.” Odysseus sighed. “Then retire for the afternoon, hopefully. Even a ghost, I still tire like an old man.”

“Can’t relate.” Achilles said with a shrug, pushing his hair out of his face and holding it at his shoulders. “You know where we are now, if you find something. My post has been moved here for the time being, and I’m in the upper districts most early mornings.”

“I will watch, of course.” he nodded, turning towards the chamber door that the Exalted came through.

“I’ll come with you.” Zagreus said, jogging to join him. “I want to run some things by Theseus, make sure we’re all on the same page. What was it you found on them, Patroclus?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Thorns. Big ones. In their neck.” he replied, folding and tying the gauze to contain them. He went to the lockbox and opened it, chugging the HydraLite so he could use the glass to further secure the makeshift darts. He tossed it to the prince, who vanished it but still made it look like he stowed it away in his clothes. He saluted, and the Prince of Hades and the Lord of Ithaca strolled out of the glade, the stone door shutting behind them. 

All was quiet. The butterflies came back out, and one landed again in his hair. He sighed, looking to Achilles when the silence stretched long enough to be worrisome.

Pensive, but not morose. Small steps. But it was not the type of thoughtfulness Patroclus had assumed when Achilles finally spoke, his eyes locked on the boulder.

“What are we going to do when they wake up?”

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. the lament of patroclus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> clean breaks heal faster, but some are full of hairline fractures.

It was another week at least with no leads. Achilles did his rounds, even stopping a few shades that frequent the upper tiers if they had seen or heard anything more. Theseus now gave reluctant but regular reports to Zagreus when they crossed paths, or rather Asterius gave them. They did not sit and wait for anymore Exalted around the lockbox, instead instructing Zagreus to just come inside the house if he had need of one. Patroclus still refilled the lockbox every morning.

That’s what he was doing now, in fact. Half asleep and half dressed, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, he placed the vial in the container same as always. And always it would be gone the next morning. He couldn’t explain why he kept doing it. He had no clue who or what the thief was, and therefore should have no qualms about blockading it. But for some reason, he did not want it to die.

He had been thinking on what Zagreus had reported before, that whatever was prowling around in Elysium was likely the same thing that did all the damage in the Temple of Styx. From what he hears it’s full of many dangers, from deadly traps to horrid vermin, and Satyrs. He had begun to theorize that the thief was not wounded, but poisoned. If they were to bring it an antidote, would it leave? How can it leave, when it took Zagreus 100 deaths to do it? Does it seek to leave at all?

Not enough proof to back up the claim. But still, it saddens him to think of it dying. 

Odysseus, along with three other bounty hunters that Theseus commissioned, were now a regular part of the investigation. Credit where it is due, he is a skilled archer and a detail-oriented strategist, unafraid to improvise. He is an asset as long as they are all aiming at the same target. And within that knowledge lies one of the many gnarled roots of Patroclus’ hate: He and Odysseus are very much alike. He mentioned as much to Achilles as they sat in bed later, Achilles with his embroidery and Pat with his endless pile of notes.

“I have often thought as much,” Achilles said with a smirk, “but was hesitant to speak it.”

Patroclus sighed, realizing he had been drawing on his parchment far longer than he had spent writing anything useful. A profile of the prince, prompted by seeing his name mentioned on the page.

“And if I may be reflective for a moment?” Achilles asked, his voice softer than before. Patroclus did not look up from what he was doing, but hummed his agreement despite the way his stomach flipped.

“The circumstances that passed to us were unkind.” He began, threading a new length of thread through his needle. “I do not speak of fate or prophecy, for the blame of that tragedy rests unmistakably on my own shoulders. I speak more of the nature of war, and how those who reap the rewards are never the ones with their lives on the line.” He continued. Patroclus eyes remained resolutely on the little sketch, but his hand had long since paused.

“I did not hesitate to show the world my rage for it, made them see it for what it was: carnage. Blood for the sake of blood. Grief, wearing a mask to frighten those who might try to approach.” Achilles spoke, with a wisdom that was new but plenty admired by Patroclus. “It has shamed me, in death. But now when I walk among other shades here, I do not hide my face. I once feared becoming too impassioned, but I can once again let emotion bloom without smothering it.” He began treading carefully, both their hands completely still.

“I have begun to wonder- if you have done the same?” Achilles wondered aloud more than questioned. “Your rage in life was a cold thing. Iced over. Biting and sharp. But here it seems it is simmering, and burns to hold in the gut. I wondered if, perhaps, you needed a direction to point it- to keep it from burning the soul.”

Patroclus did not like being picked apart. Usually whoever thought they had found his reasoning was wrong, and acted smug when he tried to correct them. They turned haughty, insisting that they knew what he thought or how he felt, so convinced of their own theories that they took any rebuttal as confirmation.

But he did not think Achilles was wrong.

Patroclus’ heart was at his throat. He did not speak, for fear his voice would break. He could not see down to his paper through watery eyes, but he also refused to cry. He would not interrupt, he would not give evidence to confirm.

“It is true that Odysseus has paid you insult, I do not deny it. Your grievances are well deserved, and in fact I have a few of my own with him. But tragedy would have befell us with or without him. If your mind seeks to soothe the soul with a direction to set pain, you can set it upon me. It is as much my fault as anyone’s. You can set it upon Agamemnon, as wicked and cruel a king as there ever was. You can set it upon Ares, or Hades. Upon Fate, upon Thetis, upon your father. But sometimes a soul just hurts, with no direction. Sometimes it has to hurt freely if it is to heal cleanly.”

Patroclus goes to take breath, to clear his throat from the weight there, but it shakes terribly. He huffs, shooting for a scoff but it comes out like a sob. The sound absolutely mortified him, and he finally dropped what he was doing to cover his face with both hands.

He shed tears by the Lethe, a few times. Things he hastily wiped away and tried to talk through, sought to understand. He shed a few tears, both of relief and sadness, when Achilles was finally returned to him. But Achilles was so scarred when he arrived here, so weary and battered that it demanded Patroclus full attention. Or rather he placed his full attention there, on bandaging Achilles wounds for once, that way he would not have to look too closely at his own.

“Oh,  _ philtatos, _ come here for a bit, won’t you?” Achilles cooed, setting his work aside. Patroclus eyed his open arms and wiped at his tears. “I just want to hold you for a little while.”

_ Oh _ , how he broke with it.

He choked, gasping a bit as he shoved all his gods-forsaken parchment into the floor. He rose up on his knees to edge across the bed, falling into Achilles with his full weight. He buried his face in his chest and finally wept like he had never let himself. He sobbed and growled and howled, he clutched at Achilles so tightly around the back and the middle that it would have drawn blood, once. If he could crawl into his rib cage, he would- Hide for a while unnoticed, letting muffled conversations happen around him but apart from him. 

Achilles held him gently in return, rocked him and wound ringlets of his hair around his fingers, kissed the top of his head while he muttered nonsense into it for what felt like ages. It could have been, for all he knew. He wondered, in all-encompassing misery, how long it had been since they died.

“I am sorry, my heart.” Achilles said with his lips touching his head, as though it made the words more direct. He sounded teary-eyed too. “For what I have done, and for the world’s sake. You need not hide your hurt from me, it will not poison me.”

Patroclus thought he had almost calmed, but a new wave of grief swept him off balance with the force of a hurricane.  _ ‘It will not poison me.’ _ That had been the root, had it not? The cruel center of it? That his pain would trigger pain in Achilles, that his grief would be contagious to someone that needed so terribly to heal?

He was allowed to stay there for hours, for long enough that the mid-morning sun from the window bronzed into mid-afternoon instead. His weeping had long since quieted, though the occasional tear still fell from his eyes. The pain in his center faded to a dull throb, left him exhausted and sore but less full to bursting. He felt well enough to complain, or more accurately to whine petulantly when Achilles removed him and wiggled out from behind him.

“I’m not going far, love.” he laughed gently, his smile watery and beautiful while he walked to the other side of the bed to pick up the notes that had been discarded. Patroclus sat up, wiping the last of his tears away to watch. Achilles organized them in a way that will surely have to be redone later, but put the one with the drawing on top. He collected one of the wooden trays they used for food from the window sill, setting the parchment on top and setting the tray gently in Patroclus’ lap, as well as returning the quill to him. Achilles also gathered his own work back into his arms and sat, the only change being which side of the bed they now occupied.

“You are as skilled a warrior as any hero or braggart in Elysium, but you have always been quite the artist, too.” he said, unsticking a coil of black hair away from Pat’s tear-damp cheek as he resituated himself, careful not to lose the needle in the bedding. 

  
  


“You were excellent practice. Dark hair is easy to mimic on paper, but your golden head was always a daunting challenge. Not that I ever let it stop me.” he replied after a beat, voice still hoarse. Patroclus, observed, belatedly, that there was no ink in the Underworld. Only quills. They never dried out and he only just now noticed as he continued filling in the jet black of the paper-prince’s hair.

“No, you didn’t. Terrible fodder for my vanity, as well, you were prone to exaggerate at times.”

The pillow, or the dove being woven into it, were coming along splendidly. Achilles would insist on helping his mother with her weaving always, even if it meant missing some sort of game or sport with all the other boys.

“I aim for nothing short of realism. Perhaps you picture yourself as ruggedly handsome, when you are in fact very fiercely beautiful, and it is captured best by my hand.” he both teased and doted, feeling a little better with a task in his hands. He still occasionally wiped at his eyes, his own wet lashes impeding his vision.

“You are the only one to ever capture me at all.” he replied swiftly, leaning over to kiss his cheek and glance at the paper, leaning fully on his shoulder now. Patroclus was drawing the embers, the little burning leaves that fly off of the prince’s head and upward like sparks from a bonfire. They are pretty, he has always thought so, but has also wondered more than once how he would bathe with fire on his head, or what his pillows must be made of to withstand the flame.

After a few minutes of adding the veins that make them truly look like leaves, he pauses. A nagging little thought that he brushes off as too vague, a theory pulled quite literally out of thin air. He tried to continue but it would not leave him be. He spoke only when Achilles noticed his stopping and starting.

“Do you suppose-?” he began, playing with the end of the quill. “What are the odds, do you think, that the leaves found on the ledge could be shed from a laurel?” Where his love’s head rested on his shoulder, he could feel the motion of him biting the inside of his cheek in thought, rolling it around in his head.

“Well then, that would mean the intruder we seek is not a  _ what _ , it is a  _ who.”  _ he muttered. “I do not know if that makes our task easier or more daunting.”

Patroclus sighed, deemed his little drawing complete and held it up to the light. 

“You should tell Zagreus, if you believe it so as well.” he said, also handing the drawing over. The message was clear, but unspoken:  _ Zagreus can keep it.  _ “If you think it is urgent enough information, you could bring it to Lord Hades directly, as he is always in the same place.”

“If Zagreus does not pass through before that sun sets, then I will go to Hades with it. The queen is returned but it is a delicate situation, one that they have been very careful to keep Olympus out of.” Achilles agreed.

“The queen is Zagreus’ mother?”

“Yes. The Lady Persephone was in her little palace garden when you came through.”

“Is she as grim as the Lord Hades?” Pat asked, beginning to arrange the papers in an order he could more easily follow after Achilles took the drawing from his hands.

“Not at all. Zagreus takes after her personality. She is very friendly, especially with the shades just entering.” Achilles said, praise evident in his voice. “She has pulled me aside several times to check on me. Told me she felt a kinship with me, raised on the surface with a mortal father.”

“Then I hope she brings balance to the realm.” Patroclus nodded, rising from bed and hunting down a fresh pair of clothes.

“If you seek out Hades yourself, at least let me show you the sigil. It’ll save you from having to climb so high again.” he teased, once more fully engrossed in his project.

“No, dear, I actually think Theseus should be made aware of this theory.” Patroclus heaved a great sigh. “And-... I have half a mind to hear Odysseus thoughts on the matter. I’ll go to them both, if I don’t catch them in the same place.

Achilles peered up through his lashes, holding his needle briefly in his teeth so as not to drop it somewhere unfortunate. “Good luck.” he said around it.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of fics tend to focus on Achilles grief, but Patroclus has a lot of bitterness that i wanted to more thoroughly explore. Next chapter will be more fun, and might even be posted pretty soon.


	6. Nobody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amends are made, and a grudge is acquired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw brief consensual drunken wiggling

Odysseus’ house was on the highest tier of Elysium, and the most sparsely populated. The shades here lived in grand houses, but lived in very large groups that mimicked the hustle and bustle of palace life. Natural it seemed that both Odysseus and Theseus made homes of such locations.

Patroclus had been fairly relieved to find that Theseus and Asterius were not home, already at the Arena for the evening festivities. A woman in the entryway did however point him in the direction of the adventurers residence, and he noticed belatedly as she gestured that she was the very woman from the market who sold the jewelry. He could see the band of the silver serpent still coiled on her arm. He thanked her and made his way.

None of Elysium was particularly well-lit, but this little corner of the tier seemed almost cozy in its dimness. It made the candlelight from the houses warmer and bolder, and if he squinted just so, Patroclus could easily convince himself he was on a surface city.

He approached the fairly modest wooden door of a large stone house, noted the white noise of murmuring shades and occasional laughter from within. An old but jolly looking woman with a gold tooth answered the door, grin still wide from some joke she must have been a part of with another roommate. 

“Well, hello handsome!” She greeted, turning around briefly to shout an obscenity at a slightly younger woman who laughed heartily. “How can I help you?”

“Evening.” he greeted. “I was told I could find Odysseus here, I wanted to discuss the matter of the bounty he’s been after.”

She turned around again, starting yet another impressive shout before Odysseus coincidentally walked into view in the hall behind her. Patroclus waved over her head from the doorway, and was glad he was noticed because said old woman had been pulled away by some more mischief of unknown sources. Odysseus raised his brows and quickened his step in her departure, gesturing Patroclus come inside before he even made it to the door to greet him.

“Come in, come in already!” he said, pulling Pat the rest of the way through the door. “Gods know how drafty it gets this high up.” Pat actually chuckled a little as he watched him bolt the door, looking and sounding all the part of an old man complaining of the chill even with the hearth lit.

“Now then!” he clapped his hands together. “How may I be of service, dear Patroclus?”

Dear Patroclus was surveying the interior, one that looked far more palatial than his little cabin, but far more lived-in than the house of Hades. Marble floors but wooden beams in the ceiling, stone columns but roughly spun, highly personalized linens and furniture. There were shades everywhere, at least ten in this larger room alone, and a hearth large enough radiate even this close to the door.

“Some theories I had about our darling intruder that I was hoping to run past you, if you were not otherwise engaged. And if you had any theories of your own I’d be happy to hear them.” he said, and he found that he was genuine. He placed his open hands in front of him, lighting the sigil he’d been taught to move items and himself around. The stack of parchment appeared there, (thankfully) and he handed them over to Odysseus.

“How terribly convenient.” he mused as he took the stack, shuffling through them in a way that kept them in perfect order. “Follow me, won’t you? Bless this house, but it sounds often like a flock of gulls.” They began walking through a slightly narrower hallway, where they pass three more shades that walk arm in arm and giggle together, tragically young, practically children, but they seemed happy.

At the end of the hall on the very right, they passed through heavy crimson curtains to enter a study of sorts. It had a low table and a great many cushions, well lit by the multicolored lanterns and candles that the Underworld so loved. Every wall was covered completely in scrolls haphazardly stored and bound books that looked more ancient than the stone itself. There were maps all over the walls, distant places that stretched far further west and east than most shades were even aware of. There was a hearth in here too, less grand but all the warmer for it.

“Sit, please!” Odysseus said, lowering himself onto a cushion with his back closest to the hearth. “There’s wine if you want it, but I warn you it is powerful. I had to thoroughly bribe the Boatman to trade it to me, along with his usual fare.”

Patroclus sat to the side, arranging cushions this way and that until he was decently comfortable. Or as comfortable as he could be, given the situation. “How do you bribe Charon?”

“He likes peaches.” was the reply. The old man procured a magnifying glass to sift through the notes written. 

“Ah.” he nodded solemnly. “Yes he seems quite the sweet tooth.”

Odysseus smiled and sat aside the glass for a moment.

“Now what is it you were wanting to go over?” he asked.

“I think that the intruder might be an Olympian.” he said plainly, watching the other man’s brow raise but his face otherwise remain unchanged. After a long beat of silence, Patroclus deemed it appropriate to elaborate.

“On the ledge, I found surface-grown foliage, stained with golden ichor. The Cthonic gods of this realm bleed black, like ink from a quill. The prince, Zagreus, who wreaks havoc often enough through the realm, bleeds red like a mortal. The only gold blood to be found below the surface should be Lord Hades himself, and it is unlikely that he has such a feathery form to frolic about in.” he paused, watching Odysseus consider.

“Could it not be something that wounded an Olympian, and sought shelter where they would not be followed?” he offered, acquiring his own parchment to begin taking notes.

“I wondered as much, but the Exalted you followed acted as though under the influence of a greater power. I have seen the prince under the effects of a too potent boon, and it was similar. Did they say anything when you hid among them?”

“They hardly spoke at all. Sometimes they would look at each other and nod or gesture, but no words were ever spoken. It was eerie.” Odysseus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. “ I know not of the influence gods can wield over each other, but I have seen mortal men under the power of many a spell and enchantment.”

“After I sent you and Zagreus with the thorns I had pulled from them, the few we kept woke with little memory of how they had arrived at the glade. Lastly,” he paused, knowing this particular theory seemed the most far-fetched, “The prince has those little laurels of flame, that spark and drop from his head on occasion before simply growing back, as though he were a tiny bonfire. I had begun to wonder if the leaves I had found could be shed from a laurel of similar function.”

At this, Odysseus put down his quill, leaning in with elbows propped up on the table, practically giddy. They are both men who love a puzzle, after all. 

“I know it is far-reaching.” Patroclus admitted. “Almost whimsical.”

“Absolutely so, if I do say so myself.” Odysseus said, drumming his fingers on the table. “But brilliant, in that it gives us even more questions, ever more paths to take, yes?” He begins writing so quickly that it is surely illegible to anyone but him. “For instance, how many Olympians have laurels that quite literally sprout from their heads? Would knowing the type of leaf be of any import? Does Olympus search for someone that is missing? Questions that would need be asked of someone who roams the surface where we cannot.”

Patroclus thinks over the new possibilities. Lord Hades does not leave the realm. Zagreus’ time upon the surface is too limited for him to be well-traveled, let alone familiar with every passing Olympian. The Lady Persephone is the Goddess of Spring, or so Achilles tells him. She might know the type of leaf, or better yet the thorns- but she cannot roam the surface at this time. So, the best source of information would be...

“I shall have to discuss this, I think, with Master Thanatos.” Patroclus nods, eyes unfocused on a spot on the rug as his mind runs a mile a minute. “The Olympians are familiar with him, and he is most frequently topside.”

“How are you so familiar with the whole Underworld pantheon? Are you their bar tender? Their hairdresser?” He asks in disbelief. Patroclus actually laughs.

“When Zagreus began passing through Elysium, he would always stop to talk to me. Miserable as I was, he sought to cheer me even before he knew my name. I hear of many from him, and have met a handful since then.”

Odysseus smiled sadly, going a bit quiet for a bit too long. He was searching for words.

“The son of Hades is a likable sort.” He agreed after a moment. “I asked him why Achilles wore the seal of the House of Hades, and he told me as best he was able. I noticed, however, that  _ you _ do not wear it. And yet you are spearheading the operation.”

Oh, here it comes.

“Forgive me if I am wrong, but is it that you seek a reward from the prince?” He asked, watching Patroclus avert his eyes and chew his lip in thought.

“No..” Odysseus revised, “You seek to earn a boon from Lord Hades.”

Patroclus hates being picked apart. Odysseus is not wrong.

“Achilles is still bound by pact to the House of Hades. It is only this debacle that has seen him working in Elysium, once done he will have to return.” Patroclus began. “If his contract were nullified completely, then he would be free to stay here. But I would then be returned to Asphodel.”

“You seek to be awarded your own place in Elysium, then. So that his may be returned to him.”

“Yes.”

Odysseus seemed to think on that for a long while, only the hearth crackling behind him and the distant sound of shades frolicking in paradise. Patroclus had taken breath to speak again, but was halted.

“I must apologize to you, Patroclus, for in life I fear I often dismissed you.” Odysseus began, freezing him in place with sad eyes. Patroclus had actually come here to apologize to the other, for his shortness and his silence both, and now faced with the reverse, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“I underestimated you at every turn, and was only faced with the consequences when you were gone. The men under your command mourned you, and your replacement then was too young and too green to match you in cleverness. No defensive strategy bore fruit other than Greek blood in your absence.” He began, speaking as though Patroclus might stop him at any given moment. “Your apprentice, also, was given Fang and Talon.”  _ His swords. _

“I was very flippant of your bond to Achilles, I think merely because I did not understand it. Seeing him without you then was-...was a horror. Gruesome, but dare I say hard to look away from. I do not claim to understand the depths of which two souls can be entwined, for there has never been such a thing for me. But I do know what it is like, viscerally- to want and to need with all a man is made of-,  _ to return home _ . And if that is the feeling of it, then I have paid you both great insult.”

_ Do not cry in front of him do not cry in front of him do not cry- _

Patroclus takes a calming breath, shaky but grounding all the same. He was allowed plenty of time to gather himself, until his breaths were clear and his throat less sore.

“I actually came here to apologize to you.” He began, slowly, because his original scripted monologue he had worked so hard on during the walk over would be less genuine now. “For being short with you here, or for ignoring you. It-.. has been brought to my attention that I had directed a lot of my anger at you, much that you were not truly at fault for, and for that I am sorry.”

Odysseus laughed sadly, reaching over to clasp him by the shoulder for a moment.

“Don’t let me off the hook for everything.” He said, with a smile that was both morose and managed to add a gleam to his dark eyes. “The passions and rage of young men are often directionless. A careening horse. You did your best to steer, it seems like.”

Patroclus made a face at that, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh, you don’t think yourself a young man?” Odysseus said. The way he spoke of all this made Patroclus think back to the market, when he had assumed the joy in the others eyes to be false. “31 and 33, the both of you. And whether it adds wisdom or takes it away, I will tell you all the same: The Trojan War ended 200 years ago.”

Patroclus was snapped out of his own head at the factoid, eyes suddenly sharp on Odysseus.

“How would you know of this?” He asked so incredulously that the other guffawed at him. It should be a sad piece of information, the truth of how long he and his love had been apart, but any knowledge from the  _ surface _ and the ways in which time passes in both places was so  _ interesting  _ that it negates it completely.

Odysseus stood and motioned for him to follow, which he did. Behind one of the maps was a large wall scroll, on which was near illegible calculations, pages of books and the quotes they contained that mentioned the year, drawings of items that must have caught the eye in Charon’s shop, how many times he’s slept, etc.

“The widest possible margin for error is about twenty years or so.” He said, pointing at the bottom before covering the scroll once again with the map and walking away like he didn’t unravel the biggest waking mystery in the Underworld: the fucking time.

“Here, take this.” He called, tossing a full dark bottle at him. “It was meant for you anyway, but you got to me faster than I got to you.”

The wine, then, Patroclus remembered. Even the bottle itself was unique enough to keep once emptied.

“Thank you.” He said, with utmost honesty. “You should keep those for a while, the notes I mean. There is plenty I thought to write that I did not bother to say.”

“Then thank  _ you _ for lending them to me. You are welcome to stay, of course. There is food and drink plenty. Though I will warn you that you’ll have to wade through the gulls to get to it.” He smiled, sitting back down at his little personal study to read.

“Tempting. But I shall return to the house, I think. It has been a challenging day, and yet I cannot rest until I hear Zagreus is up to date on all this.”

Odysseus looked up at him over his papers and magnifying glass. 

“Then I wish you luck.” He grinned. 

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He sighed in relief when he walked back into the glade. Emotionally drained and very nearly sore for it, he was glad he had been sent home with wine if nothing else.

Achilles was singing again when Patroclus walked in the house, but did not jump this time, instead letting Patroclus whistle along while he watched his love rearrange the cabinets of the kitchen. When his time was finished he greeted Pat like he had just arrived.

“These were nonsensical.” He said, gesturing to the cabinets. The table and counter was now nonsensical, as they had the contents from the cabinets strewn upon them.

“Oh I’m sure.” Pat nodded, watching Achilles chiton (the blue one of Patroclus’, the shorter one) reveal a tantalizing amount of skin as he reached up on his toes to put something on top of the cabinet.

“Zagreus showed up not thirty seconds after you left, so he is up to speed.” Achilles said, turning to face both Patroclus and the mess he’s made of the kitchen with a pout. “How’d it go?”

“Made more than plenty amends, actually.” He said, approaching his newly domestic lover to cling just because he could. Achilles was broad at the shoulder but narrow at the waist, which made it an excellent place to hold him. “And I am to bring our findings to Thanatos, who frequents the surface often. I was also sent with wine, as well.” He said, holding up the bottle.

Achilles kissed him, an intentional diversion as he swiped the bottle from his hands and disengaged to grab two cups, which were thankfully, already strewn about the kitchen on every surface.

“What’s got in your head about the cabinets?” He asked as he took his cup from Achilles. The wine  _ was _ strong, and he had to clear his throat in between sips. 

“Well, originally- _ ugh _ -,” Achilles paused, making a horrible face into his cup. “The first cup of red wine is rancid, second one is usually better. Anyway, I was trying to move the supplies you give Zagreus to a lower shelf. And then I spiraled, slightly.”

“Only slightly?” He teased, gesturing to the mess with his eyes.

“The house is still standing, is it not? If it bothers you so, come sit with me in here.” Achilles laughed, grabbing his cup and the bottle to sit on the sofa. He moved his legs long enough to allow Patroclus a seat next to him, then stretching again to a full lounge, leaving Pat with a lap full of long legs.

“Zagreus brought much news from the House of Hades...”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They fuck off for a while.

The bottle has long since emptied, and Achilles is now fully straddling his lap, blatantly gossiping about the members of the house of Hades as if he were a maid in a kings house instead of a guard in a gods. Patroclus is following along somewhat, but he is hazy and sticky sweet, paying more attention to Achilles face and the tone of his voice than the actual contents of his sentences.

“-and he insists there is a talking skeleton with the weapons, and since I smuggled those in, he is absolutely convinced I am responsible for the talking skeleton..” Achilles stopped abruptly, squinting down at Patroclus with glassy eyes and a flushed face. “You are not paying attention to me.”

“You have my undivided attention.” Patroclus spoke truthfully. His hands had been wandering leisurely on tanned thighs, in absolute delight.

“Then what did I just say?”

Patroclus could not remember. He let his face fall forward into his love’s chest in mock shame, while hands were blatantly trailing to grope at his ass. “I am sorry.”

Achilles laughed, letting him touch as he pleased, fingers scratching through his beard. “If you can manage to walk us to the bedroom, I’ll have you just like this.” He added, rolling his hips sinuously as if his words weren’t clear enough.

Pat leaned back to watch him do it, in absolute bliss before-  _ BANGBANGBANG _

Someone was surely trying to take the door down. Achilles dismounted too quickly, forgetting the wine, and fell gracefully onto the floor with a yelp.

“GENTLEMAN!” 

“I’m gonna kill him with my bare hands.” Achilles said, crawling drunkenly to quite literally hide behind the sofa, dragging cushions and a blanket along with him.

Patroclus stood to answer the door, still fully dressed. He wobbled only slightly, letting the doorway take most of his weight as he opened it to reveal their dear champions.

“Good EVENING, good shade!” Theseus proclaimed. “I was told you sought my council this day and found your quest but for nought. Needn’t fear, for I have returned to YOU instead!” 

“The maiden who answered the door left a note that you had stopped by.” Asterius clarified.

“Ah, of course.” Patroclus nodded, trying to talk over the mumbling of Achilles behind him  _ ‘Is this why all Athenians are like that?’  _ “But let us speak in the glade, I’m sure you can see from here that the kitchen is a dreadful mess.”

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	7. Of the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another stranger brings tales of the first?

Patroclus had found the vine-hidden cove Achilles spoke of, the one where he found those jet-black fruits he favored. The way the stone ceiling was angled allowed for the mist of the Lethe to collect and drip near constantly, nearing the frequency of rain. The grass was dewy and sweet-smelling, and different flowers and fruits grew scattered about with no rhyme or reason. If only Patroclus knew this place was here sooner; he would have spent his first few centuries in a slightly better mood surrounded by such a beauty.

He was fully armored in his newly acquired leather and shroud. Supposedly, more Enchanted Exalted had filled the place of the first set they felled, or so Theseus had mentioned.

_ “The creature sends others to do it’s bidding! Such a yellow-bellied monster shall find no foothold in this realm, not while I yet stand!” Theseus proclaimed. _

_ “I assume it is trying to protect itself, as the groups keep to themselves. They favor defense, not offense.” Asterius added. _

He hadn’t fought any more of them himself, though he had evaded a single group of archers that wore the thorns with the aid of the shroud- of which he was growing very fond. The cove was not secret, but far enough off the beaten path that it was unlikely he’d stumble upon a fight or a challenger of any kind. More probable to find souls like his own, peacefully admiring and sampling fruits. But for now, he was alone.

The inky fruits that Achilles favored were growing on a woody tapestry of vines, some parts thick enough to be considered branches. He grabbed plenty of these but was sure to leave enough should anyone else want them-, but as soon as he looked up from the basket, the fruit he had taken had already been replaced on the branch. He smiled, and took three more.

There were other fruits here, to be certain. He had to fight against an instinct to avoid red fruits not yet named- as they were often poisonous- and reminded himself that not only were they dead, but that nothing in Elysium was designed to harm. Nothing in the landscape, anyway. He took a bushel of pink-red berries, hard and taut in a way that promised tartness instead of sweetness.

Someone walked into the cove with a parting of vines, their footsteps hesitant in the grass after they saw the area occupied, no doubt. Patroclus let them be, picking tiny green berries off a bush and wrapping them in cloth to prevent them from scattering inside the basket.

“Pardon, shade.” The guest started, quiet and warbled. An Exalted then. The glamour that masked their faces also masked their voices, sounding too-high and too-low all at once, making Patroclus pick through the middle ranges to find a human sound.

The Exalted make him uneasy, it is true. Even before they had a 1 in 10 chance of being bewitched by a god. The longer he thought about it, however, the more he changed his mind. Did his Achilles not seek to hide his face when he first arrived? In this place occupied by the famed, could he not see the appeal in obscurity? In the peace of being unknown? The Exalted made him weary now, more than uneasy.

“Good morning.” Patroclus greeted. “Probably.” He turned to glance at the Exalted, noting that he had his sword and shield on his back instead of in his arms.

“Good morning, indeed.” They chuckled.

“I do not intend to disturb your peace, but I think I may have information about the stranger prowling about.”

“And you were told to come to me?” Patroclus nearly laughed. He sat in the crisp grass, motioned for the other shade to join him. He did eventually, though very hesitantly. “Theseus and Asterius- along with Odysseus of Ithaca- are investigating at the behest of the house of Hades, as is its Prince Zagreus and Guardsman Achilles. Any of them would be easier to reach than myself, and far more sanctioned.”

“Ah, but each name you gave is as unappealing as the last, I’m afraid. You are-..? You are Patroclus of Opus, are you not?” The shade asked, their hesitance obvious even with the disguise on their voice. 

“That I am, and little else.” He smiled, hoping to ease whatever tension the Exalted had. Was he betraying the others by spreading information? They were not so organized, a group of individuals, not an army one could fell with a secret or two. “What did you want to tell me?”

“The thorns do not work on me. I have a few with me.” The shade handed them over, and Patroclus did not mention their redundancy. “I allowed myself to appear affected, however, and I saw the man that loosed them.”

Patroclus was stunned to silence. The expression on his face must have shown it, for the shade huffed in amusement as the water dripped around them in place of Patroclus’ voice.  _ Why do the thorns not work on you? _

“What did you see of them?” He finally managed.

The Exalted sighed, picking at the grass beneath him in a display far more human than he’d ever seen from one of them.

“I have seen one or two gods in my time. Enough to know when one is standing before me.” He began, face turned down to the ground where he sat cross-legged. “He was white haired. Long, and unbound. His laurel was green and adorned in thorns, just like these. And his eyes, they’re red as blood. For a moment, I feared Lord Ares had returned to haunt me.”

White-haired: that’s why so many Elysians were willing to write it off as Thanatos in the market that day. 

“Did they not eventually notice you were unfazed by the enchantment?” Patroclus wondered.

“Oh no, they did notice. Went so far as to half-drown me in the Lethe and dump me in the residentials flat on my ass, assuming I would forget their face.”  _ How curious a ghost they are. _

“So now the Lethe holds no sway over you either, noble shade?” Patroclus asked with a raised brow.

“Did the Lethe sway  _ you _ ?” The shade countered with a tilt of their head. They took his silence as the confirmation they needed, observing him a little too closely before turning his masked face back to the grass.

“I am one of two.” The shade said. Patroclus briefly wondered if there was another shade that had been unaffected but he had no time to ask. “As you are, I mean. Of the sun, are you not?”

_ Oh. _

“Half of a whole, I am, though unmade. I have long believed it the reason the Lethe will not spare me, and so I have reason to believe it is the same for the spells cast by our new God of Thorns.”

...

This Exalted believes that being part of a fated pair has granted them immunity from supernatural peril. Patroclus does not know enough to confirm, nor to deny. But he can empathize, and does so with gut wrenching clarity.

“Where is your other?” Patroclus asked quietly, almost a whisper. It was silent for another pregnant pause, the grass swaying in that pretend breeze.

“The deeds of women-folk are not valued as they should be. Many places ban them from earning their glory. My love is likely roaming Asphodel, if I had to hazard a guess.”

“I was there for a time.” Patroclus added, with the intention to comfort. “The highlands there are not so bad. Sometimes there’s a breeze, and the glow is very pretty from afar. It is not as quiet as it is here, though, only because it’s more populated. I am sure there were many loved ones still, that welcomed your lady there.” 

“How kind and confusing of you.” The Exalted laughed in abject misery. “In equal part.”

“That is how I strive to be, in equal part.” Patroclus agreed. He stood, reaching out an arm for the other shade to take. The other seemed to hesitate, as if the offered hand would bite, though he eventually took it. 

Pat took his basket and reached into it, grabbing one of the ink-fruits and tossing it to the other shade, who caught it in one hand.  _ Sharp-eyed, too. _

“These ones are sweet, but they stain.” He said, closing the lid to his basket. “Thank you for finding me. And I will pass on what you’ve told me ; it will be a great aid. If you discover anything more-?”

“I will look for you, should I hear of anything else.” The Exalted promised with a nod of their head, and a flourished bow.  _ High-born.  _ With the lighting of a sigil beneath his feet, the shade vanished from the cove.

Not the first he’s met in Elysium, and surely not the last, the dear stranger had a Trojan accent.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Indulge me for a moment, will you?” Patroclus asked of Achilles later, lounged in the garden beside the house. It was long overgrown, vines creating a literal canopy overhead. They had only recently discovered it, then promptly dragged a small armada of cushions and pillows and blankets out to it as a sweet little respite. Patroclus was undressed from the waist up, and Achilles covered only by a spare blanket. His love was tucked under his arm, golden head resting on his chest while he wove little flowers into it.

“Am I not indulging you now?” He murmured, eyeballing the decoration he was being adorned with.

“Yes, but I am going to tell you a grand old story you’ve likely heard before, and you have to let me.” He clarified, smiling wide when a butterfly landed on Achilles bare shoulder, then another on his hair.

“It is no burden to hear you croon so tender to me.” Achilles said, pressing a kiss over his heart. It beat, but with little purpose. “Sweet-voiced Patroclus.”

“Hush. Pay attention.” He scolded fondly, with a grin so wide it changed the shape of his words. When he was sure Achilles was done giggling, he continued.

“Legend goes, that humans were once very powerful things. Bigger and stronger, and could weave deeper magics. Two heads, four arms, four legs. A beast to be sure,- but a peaceful one.” He began, feeling Achilles calm and begin trailing very light caresses over his sternum.  _ He probably assumed a scary story.  _

“Two bodies that made one form.” He said, taking Achilles hand and finding he could summon their strange light by will alone to demonstrate. “Two men, born of the sun.”

“Two women, born of the earth.” He continued, setting Achilles hand down to return to his own torso. “And a man and a woman, born of the moon.”

“Peaceful as they were, the gods feared them for their power. They were wary of any strong enough to challenge them, so they rendered them apart. Sundered them, so that they were weaker. Now, remnants of these are doomed to spend eternity in search of their other half.”

Achilles was quiet and still, and for a moment Patroclus worried he had saddened him. His love took his hand again though, placed a kiss on every knuckle before holding it tucked under his chin to stay within reach of more kisses and little brushes of his nose.

“An exalted sought me out today, to tell me they were immune to the thorns we find controlling them. They were immune to the Lethe too, and they believed it was because they were half of such a pair.”

“The Lethe did not work on you either.” Achilles whispered.

“I am blessed that it didn’t.” He said, kissing the crown of his love’s head with a sigh, gathering him closer in his arms. There were now a considerable amount of butterflies sitting with them, but he did not mind. “We were always inseparable, but I fell in love with you on Pelion. I realized it, some sweltering afternoon in the shade. You were singing, and it touched my heart so deeply that I had to hide tears from you.” He confessed.

Achilles huffed, breathless, but let Patroclus continue.

“And later..- it was later, outside Troy. How close we had to huddle together in that tent! It is strange how cold the desert is at night. Cruel days we lived then, but at night you would crawl into the bedroll and face me, nose to nose, to tell me all manner of silly things. Like we were little boys stifling laughter instead of sleeping. It was then that I thought maybe you were my other half.” He finished, a little watery-eyed but in better shape than Achilles who has always been a hopeless romantic at the best of times.

“It was a love song I sang to you that day, if you recall.” Achilles said, propping his chin up to look at Patroclus with wet lashes and Aegean green eyes.

He threw his head back on a laugh, wiping a joyful tear off of his cheek as he giggled.

“Good.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling soft, there will be more action in the next chapter which will be a big chunk of a man.


	8. Cthonic Boons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old foes and new allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for recreational drug use, pretty vaguely opiate

It was long since time for him to seek out Thanatos, which was no easy task.

Zagreus had warned as much, that the moment one goes searching for him, the more he will evaid their grasp. Not so dissimilar from the intruder they seek, it would seem. Achilles checked the House of Hades once a day at this point, and almost always just misses him. Zagreus has not seen him in Elysium for the last ten runs, and though he can be summoned to aid him in the fight, he leaves too abruptly to hold conversation.

Patroclus has decided, since they cannot move forward without knowledge of the surface, to simply seek out Lord Hypnos instead. It is said he lives in a cave at the source of the Lethe, and that the flowers upon the approach turn from shrinking violets to wild poppy. 

“A cave seems needlessly rugged for a god, don’t you think?” Odysseus mused aloud. He did not wear armor, only his sea-faring clothes and that massive longbow.

“Hypnos needs little.” Achilles supplied in return. He  _ was _ armored, not in the long regalities of his guard post, but in the leather and footwear that wouldn’t hinder his speed, as he wore last they fought. If it left plenty of his thighs to be admired, Patroclus would only do so in designated intervals where nothing important was happening. “He does work in the house, and I’ve seen him fall asleep propped up against any upright surface up to and including my person.”

“Zagreus is the same age as the twins, in a roundabout way, is he not?” Patroclus asked as they walked.

“In a mortal sense, I would suppose.” Achilles agreed. “Zagreus was so often in my care that I could reasonably say I raised him, but Mother Nyx far more closely parents the twins. I only watched them for her on occasion. What I refer to in regards to Hypnos is far more recent, in which he will often grow bored of his post and come to ask after mine. I may get three sentences into an explanation before he slumps over and I must remain still to keep him from collapsing.”

“Perhaps your stories have grown so dull as to put all who hear them to sleep.” Odysseus teased, and it was far less grating in his old-man’s gritty voice than it had been in life. He had been maybe eight years older than the two of them to start. Now, he was easily twice their age. It is easier to take mischief from a grandfather than from a senior officer.

“The only tale’s more dull than my own of late are  _ Nobody’s. _ ” Achilles replied with a grin that made Odysseus laugh.

“That must be it, surely.” Patroclus gestured up ahead. The entrance was disguised thoroughly with moss and vines, and they had to wade through waist deep grass and poppies to enter the threshold. He could not see how deep it went through the dark, though the shadows did glitter at their deepest places, not unlike the shade cast by Lady Nyx in the house of Hades.

“Is it not also possible that he could be at his post in Tartarus?” Odysseus asked.

“The Queen resumed the post he occupied upon her return.” Achilles said. “If he’s not here, then he’s on the surface.”

“Well, I would knock if there were a door.” Pat shrugged, traversing the darkness at the doorway and heading inside. Achilles followed shortly behind, then Odysseus at the rear. They seemed to walk blindly in the dark, using their spears to feel around, for an awfully long time.

Without any foresight or prediction, they were so suddenly in a lit living space that the dim light hurt their eyes. Patroclus turned around in confusion to see that the doorway was only ten paces away, even though they seemed to have walked through an entire labyrinthine hallway of darkness.

The room was hazy with an incense that made Patroclus cough at first before he became accustomed to it. All the light was from candles with a rainbow assortment of flame, the lanterns that contained some even had colored glass to meld even more whimsical colors. The room all the same was cloaked in shimmering shadow more than light.

Every surface of the room was outfitted to lounge, mattress and pallet and chaise and sofas, more royally plush pillows and cushions than could be made use of in even the largest palace. And just as well, they were not alone here. A dozen or so shades lazed in the room, scattered about at random. Some were entwined sweetly with one or two others. Comfortably, but not perversely. Wherever a group of shades laid, there would be a bowl of the incense burning.

“Hi!” 

From across the room, their dreaming god languidly floated over, landing so gently as to be silent on bare feet decorated in silver. He wore white here, instead of the red of his uniform.

Patroclus mused to himself that this is more what he pictured when he left offerings for this particular deity. He seemed all the part of a boy in the house of Hades but before him now seemed  _ powerful _ , a god less far-removed from Chaos than the Olympians were. His hazy eyes were easy to meet but hard to look away from.

“Master Sleep.” Patroclus greeted with a nod, to which Hypnos giggled slightly. “We were hoping you could help us with a bit of a mystery we have on our hands.”

“Ooh! I love a mystery.” He replied, clasping his delicate and spidery hands together. “Oh, hi Achilles! You look nice.” He said over Patroclus shoulder, likely noticing that there were still haphazard braids and flowers in his hair from the day before.

“Why, thank you.” Achilles said with a nod. He had complained half-heartedly about his adornments but also had made no efforts to remove them. Patroclus suspected there was still yet a kernel of vanity in the stoic guardsmen.

“Follow me!” Hypnos insisted, walking arm-in-arm with Patroclus as they went. Hypnos was tall but slight, and should not be able to drag him around so easily. “Is the mystery about the intruder? One of the Exalted who stays here tells me a lot about them, but they’ve been gone for a few days.”

Likely the Trojan that sought out Patroclus in the cove, he thought. And if it is who he suspects it is, it would be terribly inconvenient to meet with him here with Achilles. 

They seemed to walk for a long while, just as the three of them had at the doorway, with Hypnos prattling on affably about whatever that crossed his mind. The further they walked however, Patroclus noticed that they had lost Odysseus. A little further again and they had lost Achilles. Hypnos and Patroclus entered their destination alone.

This innermost room was low in the ground, and warmer. The haze of smoke in this room was harsher and woodier, more obvious in its intent. Patroclus had felt loose and drowsy in the first room, but here it was quickly approaching intoxication of a sort. The pleasure of it was bone deep, and the only apt description that came to mind was ‘post-coital’. He wobbled on his feet for a moment before he was able to focus on the task at hand. 

It was almost dark in here, the only light from the embers of the burning incense and a scant few blue flames. There was a low table Patroclus immediately sat at, if only to take his weight off of his boneless legs.

So dark and hazy was it that he didn’t notice the Exalted lounging against the wall digging through his satchel, his sword and shield propped up beside him until they were both seated at the table with Hypnos.

“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Hector.” Patroclus managed to tease, taking out his papers that Odysseus had returned.

If he was shocked at being addressed, he did not show it, only sighed and wiped away the glamour that hid the Exalted’s face. With his hair so ruffled he looked boyish, which Patroclus remembered. He did not recall the dark circles and the stubble, nor the scar that interrupted his mouth on the left side. His eyes make him difficult to mistake, the steely gray of them stark against the desert-bronze of his face. 

“Did you know the whole time?” He asked, his voice no longer masked.

“Not at the start.” Patroclus assured. 

“You both said you had things to bring me, so I figured I would just hear everything all at once.” Hypnos explained with a shrug. He slid a vial over to Patroclus, a thimbles worth of a syrupy honey. “That will make the poppy feel less strong.”  _ Is that what’s burning? _

Patroclus took it, noting that it had looked sweet but tasted bitter. It did its job though, so he could not complain at the increased mental clarity.

“You go first, while I gather myself.” Patroclus nodded to Hector, wrung out from being drugged and un-drugged too quickly. Mostly un-drugged. He was still a little sluggish, but nothing he wouldn’t acclimate to. 

“No rush.” He replied, placing several items on the table. “We believe the intruder an Olympian, Lord Hypnos. We have leavings of his laurel that shed dark leaves and spines. Several of these spines have been fired like darts into the necks of many Exalted. It alters their behavior, and they mindlessly protect the stranger from discovery and from harm. I have recently found this, as well.”

Hector unraveled a length of white fabric, stained and soaked through in gold.

“Bandages?” Hypnos wondered aloud.

“An awfully long length of it. Wrapped around the middle of the torso, more likely than not.” Patroclus theorized. “The first leaves of the laurel we found some odd weeks ago were also stained with ichor.”

“I heard from Zagreus that it’s put a shortage on the Kiss of Styx.” Hypnos said floating over the cushions upside-down.

“It has. But the Kiss of Styx should heal any wounds completely upon its renewal, including poison. I had assumed the intruder had acquired their wounds in the Temple, but the theory falls flat if it is still so bloodied.” Patroclus said, marking several things out of his notes. “Have you caught any more sight of it?”

“Nothing more than I shared with you. White hair, ruby-eyed.”

“Probably one of Ares son’s, then.” Hypnos shrugged, finally landing on a cushion instead of hovering above it. If he noticed their stunned silence, he did not remark on it.

Not only was Ares- ‘The Man-Maker’-, known for having a small battalion of sons both mortal and immortal, each possibility seemed all the more sinister. Had Elysium’s shades not had their fill of War? Of Fear? Dread? And on the surface, what would stand in Lord Ares path to rescue a son from the land of the dead? Unless he sent them here himself, bored with mortal bloodshed and so he sought havoc on the dead?

Hector must have had the same reaction, staring blankly at the bloody bandages and biting at the nail on his thumb. Odd, in death, to see the humanity of an enemy. Allegiance is irrelevant to a ghost, and Patroclus cannot summon any ill-will for the man who had slain him and sat before him now as an ally.

“I wouldn’t underestimate any of them, for sure. He raised all of them himself, so you can bet they know how to fight.” Hypnos continued, fidgeting until he sat upright. “If you wanna keep up with them, you’ll need some help. And to keep up with Zag. And Achilles, too. They’re all pretty fast.”

Hypnos held a strange orb in each hand, a sphere of hazy violet light that twinkled black around the edges, swirled a dizzy gold at the center where the symbol of a lidded eye gazed at them.

It was a boon.

Patroclus was the first to reach out to touch, knowing what was being offered. As soon as his hand made contact with it, it burst into dancing colors behind his eyelids, settled heavy and assured in the limbs. 

“I call it Slow Blink. You can use it a bit like a dash, but it shouldn’t be as disorienting. You picture where you want to move to, across a battlefield or through a wall, and then-.. well, then you  _ blink _ over there.”

“How the deepest sleeps feel the quickest?” Hector asked as his hand hesitated above the orb before he accepted the boon, seemingly surprised that it did not sting.  _ Has he taken another before? _

“Exactly!” Hypnos agreed. “I left your man and your Grampa in the main room, you’ll want to fill them in. I’ll ask Thanatos what he thinks the next time I see him, too.” He looked himself on the brink of sleep, and Patroclus wondered what magic he worked from dreams there, if any at all.

“I suppose I will take that as my queue.” Hector said as soon as Hypnos was fully unconscious. 

“I hold no grudge against you.” Patroclus assured, gathering his things. “I cannot scorn a soldier for killing a foe, as that is what a soldier is meant to do. You need not hide your face from me.”

Hector looked up from his own belongings, meeting Patroclus eye perhaps for the first time.

“I do not believe I bested you fairly.” He confessed.

“If in a fair fight you would be slain, your only option would be to fight unfairly.”  _ Semantics, now. “ _ Regardless, if your theory is true about the thorns, I will need you if it comes to a fight. And who better to speak for your prowess than I?” Patroclus spoke casually.

“You can’t be serious.” He laughed with disbelief.

“Surely it is Achilles that makes you doubt, yes? I will think carefully on it. Perhaps inspiration will strike. For now though, you have an excellent opportunity to test the boon granted.” Patroclus said, folding his arms to watch.

Hector seemed to focus on a thought, shaking out his arms as if they felt numb. As soon as he stilled and blinked, he phased out of the room. 

Assuming he had taken himself outside the cave, Patroclus decided to try for himself later. He exited the room Hypnos had taken him to and immediately found himself in the main chamber, similar to the false hallway’s disappearance at the entrance. Amongst all the lounging and intoxicated shades, he spotted Achilles first, lounging supine in the arms of a soft and plump looking woman while a leaner one lounged on  _ him _ in turn. So familiar was the sight of it that Patroclus nearly laughed. He kicked at his foot to get his attention.

“We never get invited to parties like this anymore, do we?” Patroclus teased.

“I was just saying that.” Achilles slurred in return. “I have lost the old man.”

“Shall we find him together? I have much to tell the both of you, and even more still to tell only you.”

“I suppose we shall.” He sighed, having to all but physically lift the other shades off of him. The gap he left was filled with little fanfare and little complaint. Patroclus caught him when he stumbled and helped keep him upright. Odysseus was not in the room at all, he noticed.

“Race you outside?” Patroclus prompted, with a sly grin.

“Race  _ me _ outside?” Achilles responded with his brows raised, whether he was referring to his own speed or intoxication, Patroclus did not hear. He had already blinked out of the mouth of the cave.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. Aspect of Patroclus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More gear for the sly tactician

After an hour or two at the house, away from Hypnos’ burning poppy, Patroclus found his head completely clear with little lingering drowsiness. Achilles seemed more or less returned to normal as well, though he complained of a headache behind his eyes.

“You warned Odysseus to stop wearing the Exalted glamour yes?” Patroclus asked from his seat at the vanity.

“Yes. Why was that, again?” Achilles grumbled from the bath, attempting to use the heat to rid his headache. He was sunk so low that he had to tilt his head up to talk to avoid a mouthful of water.

“The intruder can tell when their enchantment failed. My contact, the shade immune to the thorns, warned me to not let any others try the charade, lest they be turned on us.” He replied, sighing and rising to rid himself of his clothes. A cheap distraction meant to soften the blow that he still wasn’t sure he would go through with. 

As expected, at the prospect of being joined in the bath Achilles perked up ever so slightly. Patroclus laughed to himself- his love appeared mortal in most respects, but those slightly pointed ears twitched upward in excitement even when his face remained passive. That was the real reason Achilles kept his hair long. Likely as not, Peleus, Thetis, and Patroclus were the only souls that ever knew it. He wondered now where King Peleus resided, the man who raised him as a foster son. He wondered how Thetis spent her days now on the surface, how she filled her time.

“And you trust this contact?” Achilles asked as Patroclus joined him in the water. It was bordering on too hot, though he knew he could not burn. Still, it was better than the salt left by ocean water and the silt left by foreign rivers. Was it an enchantment of a sort that kept it from ever growing cold, or some technical method of heating done by the magma further down?

“Trust is a strong word.” Patroclus decided, sliding over to sit in his lovers lap in the water and greeting him with a peck on the nose. “More so that he has nothing to gain from tricking me. The intruder seems to be hunting him, because he’s seen their face.”

“You didn’t mention that before.” Achilles mused, letting Patroclus take the weight of his head to massage the back of his neck. He winced, but leaned into it all the same.

“Did I not? I meant to.” He replied, placing a teasingly chaste kiss on the long column of the throat bared to him. He released the hold he had to remove some of the décor from Achilles hair, lest it tangle and matt. 

_ “You have to wind tighter than that.” He complained once while Achilles attempted to help him put braids in his ebony hair. Patroclus was halfway through when his arms got tired. _

_ “If I try to braid any tighter, your head will bleed.”  _

_ “It has not and it will not.” _

“The shade said the intruder looked like a young man. Hair as long and unbound as yours, though it is white as snow. Said his eyes are the color of blood, and his laurels have spines in them like the thorns.” Patroclus explained, undoing a braid he’d put on Achilles that he would have had trouble undoing himself.

Achilles tensed at the description.

“The shade said he has gazed once upon Lord Ares, in life, and that the intruder wears a striking resemblance.” Patroclus continued. “Hypnos believes it is likely one of his sons.”

“Numerous as they are.” Achilles deflated, slumping forward to rest his head on Patroclus’ chest- a favored location. “Your shade is well-informed and suspicious.”

Patroclus raised a hand to go back to massaging the back of his love’s neck, partially to keep him in place and partially to ease the headache.

“The shade is Hector of Troy.” He said, as casually as if he was remarking on the weather or their grocery list. Achilles did not tense this time as much as he froze completely, the charade of breath halting for long enough to be eerie. His arms tightened around Patroclus, who in turn managed to shake him from stillness by rummaging around on the ledge for their wooden comb, continuing the bath as if they weren’t actively exploring a trauma. A few petals were loosed from his golden head as he combed, and he schemed gently on which blossoms to weave in next time.

“You said-?” Achilles mumbled after a few excruciatingly quiet moments, trailing his fingers up and down the line of Pat’s spine. “About the thorns, before, you said-... it was Andromache?”

_ Ah. _

It is not rage that arrests Achilles so, it is guilt. Hector confessed he did not know what he had sundered until death, and here Achilles was discovering the same. Not that the knowledge would have slowed him, then. Patroclus knew even while they both lived, they were more than capable of cruelty, vengeful and petty at their worst.

“Yes.” Pat confirms, cradling Achilles face to look him in the eyes. “I do not ask this of you to be heartless, but please find some peace on the matter. If what he says about the enchantment is true, we may need him in a fight.”

“I knew you’d say that.” He replied, trying to duck back down into his chest, but Patroclus tightened his grip to keep his face tilted for a kiss. “I also suspect you are planning something. I will not try to sway you, but please be careful, beloved.”

“I am always careful.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The evening bazaar is more lively than the morning market.

This crowd was more likely to be full of youth cut short, looking to make merry where in life they were unable. It was loud but joyful, more laughter than Patroclus had heard as of yet in the Underworld. The torches and lanterns were warm colors, gold and red and blazing orange that offset the sleepy blue gloom of Elysium. The air smelled of spices instead of grass, and the air carried music instead of the trickle of the Lethe.

Achilles seemed unable to hold onto his dour mood from earlier, looking around bright eyed and delighted.

“Do you want some?” Patroclus offered, holding out his folded parchment full of roasted chestnuts. He had never had them before, but they smelled sweet over the coals the old woman toasted them over, and they were quite unceremoniously shoved into his hands before he could ask a single question about them. They were sticky, as though honeyed.

Achilles eyed them suspiciously and took one, chewing slowly. A picky eater always, turning his nose up at the smallest sliver of an onion even though Patroclus had seen him eat a wild animal twice.

“Oh, they’re sweet.” He said, taking a pinch of them while Pat gave him a peck on the cheek. “I like the way they smell.”

“I wonder where she got them. The house would smell nice if we made them at home.” He mused, feeling warm and honeyed himself in the middle. They never had a home together before, though they had almost always lived together. Achilles was the prince of the palace they were children in. When he was sent away to Mt. Pelion, Patroclus followed, and thus received the same training. He followed to Skyros after, and then to Troy. But the places they slept were not their own, not until now.

“They must grow somewhere below, if there are so many to spare.” Achilles said, the reply shaking him from his reverie. “Unless perhaps they are indeed rare and from the surface, and she just thinks you are handsome enough to warrant the gift.”

“What is the use of being handsome otherwise?” He shrugged with an expression of mock confusion on his face as he chewed on three more chestnuts.

“I always knew that was why you flaunted so, to see where dinner could be found.” Achilles said with a sunny grin, eyes trailing colorful floating lanterns overhead.

“I am not flaunting, I am only walking. It cannot be helped if treats and trinkets and wine just so happen to lay at my feet as I wander.” He replied dryly, relishing the way his love threw his head back on a laugh, showing a peek of his too sharp white teeth. Patroclus very suddenly misses the moon.

The music they had been hearing was from a woman on a corner with a drum, while the man behind her played a tambourine. She sang a song in a language he did not know and had never heard, and upon closer inspection he recognized her as the red-headed woman from the bath house with the Spartan companion.

Said companion was not far, wading through applauding shades at the end of a song to hand the other one of the glasses of nectar in her hand. A little twinkle of light emerged when their hands brushed, gone as soon as the eye could track it. Patroclus took mental note of it but filed it away for later.

The crowd trickled toward the musicians to place gems and trinkets into the metal dish she carried, and the Spartan carried it around amongst the shades to collect any others.

“If only we could find you a lyre, Achilles, we could have the whole house furnished with feathers and furs to spare.” Patroclus smiled.

“I was just thinking last night that the only lyres I have seen in the Underworld are as big as I am and likely weigh twice as much. I would get one if I could find one less grand and more-..”

“Portable?”

“Yes, portable.” Achilles agreed, seeing something over his lovers shoulder but turning to keep resolute and suspicious eye contact. The crowd was rowdy, dancing and clapping and running in the courtyard.

Achilles took the chestnuts out of his hands and held them, not eating then for the moment and continuously being distracted by something in front of him that was  _ behind  _ Patroclus.

“I will hold these.” Achilles nodded as though he had been granted a daunting duty to do so.

Usually when fast and rhythmic footfalls approached him, it was either Achilles wanting to be caught mid-air, or it was Zagreus- also wanting to be caught mid-air. When he turned around and kept his center of gravity low, it was not Zagreus who hit him with their full body weight.

“Leandros?” He grunted, taking a moment to balance with a grown man latched into him like a toddler. His apprentice, it was, the youngest and slightest soldier he had taken under his wing. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by  _ another  _ body slamming into his side in a similar fashion, nearly knocking him over. “And Dorian?”

“Also Alcides.” Achilles said around a mouthful of chestnuts, slightly farther away to make room for the man who now leapt onto Patroclus back, leaving him standing upright and carrying three grown ass men with only his own feet planted on the ground.

It was an odd feeling, remembering there were people that mourned him other than Achilles. He had assumed Odysseus to be false when they first reunited, but it was difficult to think the same of these three who were openly weeping with joy against him and babbling like children. Not that they were much older than children. If he and Achilles had barely cleared three decades, these had only just grasped at two, if even that.

Achilles had very quickly risen to a commanding rank in the war, and then quickly thereafter to  _ the _ commander. Patroclus had been only his tactician and later a general, and therefore had more time on his hands to take on apprentices and more closely train the men in his charge. He was scoffed at for choosing who he did- Leandros was willowy and frail looking but brilliant. Dorian and Alcides were childhood friends of the boy’s, and thus Patroclus had taken to acting as an older sibling as well as a teacher to all three.

“Now now, that’s enough tears, I believe.” He said, ruffling them all on the head while he blinked away tears of his own. Only Leandros looked even a little older than the last he’d seen, and all three of them still had their cloaks pinned with silver medallions that he had given them.

“Where have you  _ been?” _ Leandros said, still clinging as the other two went to fawn over Achilles.

“I have been sitting still, it would have been very easy to find me.” He laughed, noticing the music had stopped only after hearing it resume. “We only recently got settled in, but the house is in the lowlands along the Lethe. Do you live up here, little brother?”

Leandros finally climbed down, wiping at his eyes.

“Yeah.” He huffed. “We all live with Theseus. We have our own place, but it was too quiet and we couldn’t sleep”

“Then I was at your doorstep just this week. What kind of a host would leave me out in the courtyard? As cold as it is up here?” He teased, giving in to the urge to embrace him once more, swaying comfortingly side to side. The boy bulked up a little, had some stubble on his face, but seemed to die a youth all the same. 

“Oh! I thought if I ever saw you here I had something to give you.” He said, pulling away from Patroclus and reaching to his back, though he carried neither pack nor satchel. “I have sworn off fighting, but Achilles gave me these.”

From nowhere he pulled out his gifts, both of them still sheathed and covered in their leather buckles and straps and harnesses.

_ Fang and Talon. _

“Leandros, you need not return these.” He said with a shake of his head.

“I cannot bring myself to raise steel again. If I kept them, they would wither on a shelf to be forgotten. The ghost of metal does not rust, but it does fade away. Take them, I will not be swayed.” He insisted, shoving them into his hands.

As soon as they left Leandros hands, what little metal was exposed seemed to shine brighter, as though newer. The leather looked less worn and less creased, and the younger man smiled brightly.

“See, better use in your hands.” He clasped Patroclus on the shoulder. Achilles had wandered off with the other two and with the chestnuts, he realized belatedly. “That is a princely cloak! How did you come about that?” He asked, picking lightly at the trim.

“Walk with me, and I will tell you.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am having so much fun! This is mostly fluff and world-building but the next chapter is pretty plot heavy.


	10. All is Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our rating went up :) Homer once said “Actually I think Patroclus tops” to a crowd of naysayers, and I will follow his wishes for this chapter.

Patroclus had not watched Zagreus fight more than a handful of times, but his technique was easy to see if you watched for it. He had a rhythm he worked to with Stygius-  _ onetwothreefourfive Break, _ and then would pivot to interrupt the pattern of any assailant. Reasonably then, one would need to interrupt Zagreus’ pattern to land a hit or to disengage him, and not operate with a rhythm he could detect.

Every swing of Stygius was halted in its trajectory by Talon, working steady in Patroclus right hand as they sparred in the glade. The prince would dash, spring behind him to take him off guard, but he moved like Achilles- Patroclus knew where he would be and blocked these randomized swings with Fang in his left hand. 

After he’d realized he was not rusty, that his swords needed no time to be reacquainted, he started adding Slow Blink at random to his attacks. Give the prince a taste of his own medicine.

“Oh, you son of a bitch!” Laughed Zagreus breathlessly as Patroclus narrowly avoided a lunge by blinking behind him, forcing his opponent to suddenly be on the defensive for several swings before they separated to pace around each other. “Why don’t you spar with Achilles?”

“We are too evenly matched.” Achilles said, lounging in civilian clothes against a pillar with Leandros. He had grass in his hair from falling asleep earlier, and had only been woken when Zagreus arrived.

“That’s not quite true. If I were a foe, he would best me. It’s more like-..”

“They do not fight, they dance.” Leandros said around a mouthful of berries. “Sparring doesn’t get them anywhere.”

“That’s not quite true, either: it has gotten Achilles on all fours.” Patroclus said with a Cheshire grin. Zagreus and Leandros laughed and Achilles threw an entire pomegranate at him. He caught it in one arm and tossed it to Zagreus instead.

“Use that for your boons this run.” Patroclus insisted, sheathing Talon at his back and Fang at his hip. “I didn’t mean to stop you for so long, I’m sure Theseus will have a fit if you’re late.”

_ “YOU’RE  _ the one from the Arena??” Leandros asked with wide eyes and then a boyish laugh. “My friend Alcides only shows up when you are predicted to be there. He thinks you are good looking.”

“Oh?” Zagreus asked, obviously giddy as he cut into the pomegranate with surgical precision and then sheathing Stygius. “Come with me then! I’ll keep the Exalted off you on the way over.”

Leandros rises with an ‘oof’, flicking Achilles on the nose as he goes and giving Patroclus a quick hug before jogging to catch up with Zagreus at the door, who offers a quarter of the pomegranate.

“Bye! Thank you for the notes, I’ll bring them back tomorrow morning! Or evening!” Zagreus called just before the door shut behind them.

“I dare say you seem terribly smug as of late.” Achilles smiled, clearly enjoying the smugness.

“I don’t want to speak too soon, but I might be having fun.” Patroclus replied, helping Achilles to his feet so they could go back inside. He held his hand captive as they walked, kissing the back of it at his leisure.

“Stangnancy never suited you.” Achilles agreed with a nod. “If there was no task at hand you would create one, and when none could be crafted you would become insufferable and mischievous.”

“Insufferable!” Patroclus scoffed in good sport, releasing Achilles hand to pinch harshly at his ear when they reached the door. As soon as he pushed it open with his foot he pounced, grabbing Achilles and throwing him over both shoulders like a wounded soldier. “Mischievous, he says!”

_ “Pat!”  _ Achilles screeched, though he resigned quickly as soon as he noticed he was being ferried  _ past _ the couch, giggling sweetly when he realized the next likely destination was their bedroom.

Indeed that was the mischief Patroclus had planned, tossing him down onto the mattress like he was a sack of grain, though he looked much nicer.

They never took much effort into making their bed, knowing they could get in and out of it at their leisure. It was wrinkled and well-lived in, and only made Achilles half-thrown into it look all the more inviting. His long  _ chlamys  _ pooled in pretty places around his legs, matching the disheveled bedding and slipped coquettishly over his shoulder. His hair, worn free and wild ever since his return to Elysium, took up almost as much space as his ever-toned body did. His face was split with a smile, showing off the glint of his tiny little kitten fangs on the sides, a blush already rising high on his cheeks. All this and even still, Achilles was the one paying Patroclus compliments while gazing up at him.

“ _ Oh,  _ pretty thing, I love when you toss me around.” He laughed, the slow bend of one leg revealing more skin.

“I have theorized that you adore it so because no one else could manage it. Muscle is heavy.” He replied casually, prowling over on his knees and running a teasing hand over Achilles covered stomach, his waist cut and severe, trailed downward to grip at a thigh, at a calf, resting lower to soothe his thumb over the scar on his ankle. 

“Even if they could, I wouldn’t let anybody else.” Achilles mused, gone soft and pliant and lazy as he grabbed a pillow to rest his head on, still strewn sideways across the bed.

He practically barked out a laugh in reply, resting on his heels and pulling Achilles hips into his lap. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” He smiled knowingly, full of pretty memories. “When people wanted to share our bed, it’s because they wanted to be in the middle, and I think you are simply too polite to suggest otherwise.”

Achilles hummed, undoing the pins on his own clothes while Pat remained passively in his leather. There were still weapons on his person, but he made no move to be rid of them yet, instead unwrapping his lover like a present and letting him rest naked on the unmade bed and the pools of his green robes.

“I would be a very poor host to deny a  _ guest _ their preference, would I not?” Achilles said and attempted to sound princely through his smile. He managed to reach far enough forward to begin plucking away at the ties that held Pat’s chest piece together at his sides.

“Was that it,  _ commander _ ? Or did you not want your soldiers to see you so thoroughly bested?” Patroclus asked with a tilt of his head, halting Achilles hands and pinning them to the mattress by his head. He pushed down a bit with his weight, letting Achilles feel the press of tanned hide and scrape of metal buckles against naked skin. He could handle the discomfort. More than handle it, he arched upward into it.

“Not good for morale.” He said, finally starting to sound a little breathless. His blush was trailing down and gathering at his tanned collar, his already half-hard cock gaining a similarly lovely blush of pink as he rolled his hips up into unforgiving leather. Slowly, as though he was trying to be subtle.

Patroclus released his arms and leaned back again, reverent and indeed slightly smug as he drank in the scene painted before him.

“Needy thing.” He tutted, though his tone was one of praise as he lifted Achilles by the hips enough to get his other hand on his back, flipping him over onto his stomach with the same nonchalance as he had tossed him down the first time. As soon as he made sense of his new position, he groaned into the pillow, arching decoratively as though it would spur Patroclus into haste. If anything he spent even more time admiring taut muscle, massaging the back of his thighs and palming at his ass.

“And to think we didn’t even spar today.” Achilles managed to choke out, thoroughly muffled by the bedding and his own hair.

Patroclus laughed for several reasons. The lesser known being that he had put a vial of oil in his pocket that morning, with the expectation that they  _ would _ be sparring, which had over the course of many years become nothing more than increasingly convoluted foreplay. He uncorked the oil as silently as he could, and seemed to be successful.

“Lucky we didn’t, as we had guests. And an accommodating host as yourself would never be caught so unawares.” Patroclus mused, punctuating his sentence with a dribble of oil spilled onto Achilles tailbone. He gasped, indeed unawares, as his lover spread him to watch it trickle down.

“Yo- _ ooh _ ? had that- in your  _ pocket!”  _ He accused, sounding scandalized even as he propped up on his knees, setting a wide stance to give Patroclus a better angle. It made the swoop of his spine breathtaking, his chest still resting on the bed and his face still obscured by golden curls. Patroclus relished in the feeling of being both lovestruck and throbbing with need between his legs, though he ignored it in favor of playing at unaffected.

He slicked his fingers too, using his oiled thumb to pet circles into Achilles hole while his other hand reached below to stroke him slowly, a kinder friction no doubt than the leather had been before. 

Achilles keened in shock at first, but settled quickly into pleasure and rhythm, every exhale a sigh as he rocked into the grip on his cock and back to the finger being worked into him. Patroclus could see part of his face now, a damp and bitten red flash of his lips peeking out as he brought his hand up to his mouth to worry his knuckles with his teeth. A habit he’d kept as long as they had been intimate, often leaving the indention of his own teeth in the form of a bruise on his middle finger for days after.

He whined when Patroclus became distracted, though he was promptly placated by a second finger sliding all the way in one push to join the first, working in a steadier rhythm- thrusting in and out instead of just feeling around.

_ “Patroclus,-  _ !” Achilles gasped, arching further and rocking more surely, now favoring the fingers inside to the hand wrapped around him.

Patroclus moaned just at the sight and sound of him, rolling his hips into nothing as he managed a third finger.

“You take such care of my name when you say it, my heart, have I ever told you that?” He confessed near drunkenly as he fell forward against golden skin, placing a wet kiss on the twin dimples that sat low on Achilles' back.  _ Pat-ro-clus, he replays it, how sweet he rolls the R, how he hisses the S in pleasure.  _ He releases his grip on his cock to resume the work unlacing his own leathers, cursing himself for not allowing it to be removed before now while the man prone beneath him in a lather managed to laugh at his sudden desperation.

“What’s got you,” he gasped, looking behind him, “so hot all of the sudden?” He smiled, nymph-wild and smug as he worked his hips, riding the fingers in him with more finesse than a courtesan. With rapidly thinning patience Patroclus removes his fingers, swiftly but carefully.

Achilles groaned in complaint, attempted to rise onto his elbows to turn forward and downright yelled when he was halted with a brutal stinging swat to a taut cheek. 

“Be patient, please.” Patroclus heaved, finally pulling the chest piece over his head. Achilles stayed put but squirmed when he heard the working of the buckles on his belt and bracers, watching behind him out of the corner of his eye as more and more leather hit the floor. 

Patroclus had no idea how hot he’d gotten until he unpinned his chiton and his skin was bare to the air, the difference in temperature making a shiver shoot down his spine as he eyed the ghostly handprint left on Achilles' ass.  _ When they designed Elysium, did they have to discuss the matter of wounds in relation to love-making? _ He grabbed for the oil again, hissing and bucking into his own hand in absolute shock of how hard he’d gotten in so little time.

He crawled over and bid Achilles rise onto his hands, on all fours. Even the warmth of his back against Patroclus chest was intoxicating as he mounted, brushing long hair all to one side so he could mouth at his neck and shoulders as he pleased. He didn’t even need his hands to guide himself, pushing in slow and easy while one arm curled around Achilles chest in an embrace, the other holding up his weight with their joint hands.

Patroclus paused once he was as deep as he could go, gasping at the almost-too-hot of his body, at the feeling of too-much oil dripping to trail a too-sensitive path down his sack as he panted into wild hair. He thought he had gathered himself but Achilles clenched tight around him, pushed back to urge him to move.

He did move, torturously slow to start- Rocking them like a ship on an ocean but keeping them mostly joined. Achilles matched immediately, swaying with him just right and twisting to request a botched kiss- which was granted.

Not for the first time he wondered: How was it so  _ good _ here? They’ve always been good, the chemistry was always there and they knew what the other liked. But the handful of times in Elysium-  _ in death- _ have been soul shaking. Patroclus could feel every move down to his fingers and toes, pleasure clouding his head like wine for hours after.

He adjusts his grip around Achilles middle so he can grip steady at his hips with both hands, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He starts a deeper rhythm, dragging out further and pushing in harder to hear the low noises being wrung out of his lovers throat. 

He straightens himself higher on his knees so he can drag against the spot that makes Achilles quake when he drives down, watches enraptured and starving as the pretty olive skin on his thighs jumps once and then takes to constantly trembling.

He lasted longer on his hands then Patroclus though he would, collapsing back onto his chest when his arms grew too unstable. He praised and cooed the whole time, meeting him back at every thrust with an obscene slap of skin, the praise quickening with the pace:  _ That’s perfect, that feels so good, sweet-heart, my darling, my love my love my love- _

Patroclus found an angle so sweet and slick that it forced a moan out of him as though  _ he _ were the one taking it, collapsing onto Achilles with his full weight so they were pressed flat into the mattress. He had to move shallow like this but tried to make up for it in little corkscrews as he panted harshly into Achilles shoulder, who reached behind to grasp desperately at Patroclus thighs and keep him as deep as he could go.

Patroclus snakes an arm underneath Achilles chest and up to cradle half at his throat and half at his jaw, trailing his other hand below to stroke him, mouthing at his ear all the while.

_ “Oh, my Achilles,  _ sweet thing-,” he cooed tenderly but nips sharply, hissing as his prone lover starts to tighten around him. “Are you close?”

_ “Yes.”  _ He choked, trying to spread his legs wider. He was dripping into one of Patroclus’ hands, ghostly pulse hammering away into the other. “Just like this, please, just a little-“

Achilles froze under him, locked in place while Patroclus worked and worked and worked before he finally  _ melted,  _ spilling over his hand groaning so sweet and low that it lingered in the floorboards, hummed and buzzed in the walls. Patroclus sunk his teeth in as soon as he felt him squeeze and tighten in waves, releasing his spent cock to grip at his hip and rail into him with no remaining finesse. 

What finally did him in was Achilles slipping one of the fingers that had been gripping his jaw into his mouth, working his tongue around sloppy and wet and lazy. When he pursed his lips to  _ suck _ , Patroclus whined, pushing as deep as he could twice more before the dam burst. Pleasure blinded him as totally as it had every other time in Elysium, hot and liquid and narcotic in its potency, burning all the bones away and leaving his limbs useless.

They groaned in unison when he pulled out, and Achilles wasted no time rolling over to receive all the kissing that their position had denied him with unrestrained enthusiasm, pulling Patroclus into an embrace so he could rub his smooth jaw against his lover’s beard.

“I’m starting to wonder if all fighting simply gets your blood pumping.” He mused, brushing their noses together back and forth. “Was our first time not after a spar?” 

“You could call it during, I believe.” Patroclus confirmed, tilting his head to receive more affection along his neck in the form of fluttering eyelashes. “Fully clothed, rutting against a tree.”

“Hm. I think I won that one.” Achilles decided seriously. Patroclus laughed, surprising himself with the sound of it.

“What do you  _ mean?”  _ He asked desperately through his giggling.

“You know.”

He did not have a clue.

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The next day, Achilles donned his courtly guardsman outfit and paraded off to the upper tiers with a solemn vow to his lover to replace the chestnuts he had made off with previously. 

Patroclus lazed in bed for a long while after, wrapped in the entirety of the blanket now that he wasn’t required to share, turned to the window so he could feel the strange morning sun on his face. He did not sleep, but he did not rise just yet, comfortable and calm as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Their bedroom was more bare than the kitchen or the living room. Though they had fallen into a sort of routine, this house was new to them and still being claimed by their belongings and trinkets and keepsakes, which they seemed to gather in the front rooms for decoration.

One of the only things of note in here was the jar sitting on the windowsill. The glass was a pretty pink, and it was as large as a vase though less dramatic in its figure. It was about a quarter full of gems, some large, some small. Emerald and sapphire and rubies catching the light from the window and scattering them all over the bed and the walls and the floor. 

Achilles was occasionally paid in gems at the house if something particularly strenuous had been asked of him. More accurate maybe to say he was  _ tipped _ in gems. The Exalted sometimes exchange them for victorious duels, and Charon has been known to sell them for coin. 

When Achilles acquired gems, he spent them. Little things to sweeten his day, or gifts, or treats. Patroclus often hesitated with them, and so he started gathering them in the jar. He had no plans for them, not really. They honestly looked pretty in the window like that, though some passing fancies had tempted him to remove them. 

Patroclus finally sat up, rubbing at his eyes. He looked around to see that Achilles had cleaned up the room, setting all Pat’s gear in a chair but took their weeks worth of clothing out of the floor. They were likely soaking in the washroom with some sweet smelling herbs Achilles had discovered pilfering through the vanity. He was feeling particularly lazy, but he couldn’t strap his armor on naked skin or he’d be cursing himself later with every step. He groaned, rising to go fetch a clean chiton out the wardrobe and returning.

Achilles had acquired the chest piece at the market in a haste, meaning it only to be a temporary solution. Truthfully, Patroclus was rather attached to it. Metal pieces, even when they fit properly, didn’t allow for the sweeping circular motions he favored in combat. They didn’t allow for twists and bends, forcing a full pivot to adjust stance or to dodge. 

As he finished the last tie, he had decided to either keep this particular torso piece or accept only leather ones in its stead, having talked himself into it. It was better for the way he fought, strange as it seemed to other soldiers while he yet lived.

_ Master Chiron almost never spoke to Patroclus only, never pulled him aside or addressed him directly. He did not take it to heart, for he was not technically supposed to be here and he understood that, even as a boy. So the centaur sending Achilles to go fetch something and then immediately turning to look right at him was cause for much concern. _

_ “You do not favor a hand.” He said, his voice steady and proud as always. _

_ “Sir?” He had asked, unsure of what he meant. _

_ “Mortals and gods alike have a better hand and a weaker hand. You do not have a weaker hand. I would teach you to wield a weapon in both, to test the theory.” _

He had been correct, because he was always correct. Though, the first time it was suggested to him Patroclus was sure he would make such a fool of himself that he would finally be asked to leave the mountain.

Fully dressed and geared, he grabbed a fig out of the bowl on the counter and threw his shroud over his shoulders at the door before waltzing out, locking the door behind him with a wave of his hand.

He had intended to follow the Lethe up to Hypnos once more, if only to take a glance and see if Thanatos finally decided to show and answer their questions. He stopped in his tracks when he realized he was not alone in the glade.

Cloaked and crouching in the very place Patroclus used to haunt was the Son of Ares.

The lockbox next to them was open, though it was empty. Elysium had nearly run out of glass vials during this whole ordeal, so Patroclus had not been able to refill the Kiss of Styx in a few days. The stranger's breath rattled, and his arm trembled where he held it tight to his side.

They surely heard him leave the house, yes? Were they so weak now that they didn’t bother to run from him? Did they intend to speak with him? Were they so desperate for the healing potion that they were willing to risk exposure?

Patroclus walked slowly but purposely, making sure his footsteps made enough sound so he didn’t seem like he was creeping up on them. The stranger turned only a little when he approached, their face still hidden but a piece of long white hair falling out from the hood of his cloak.

“Good morning.” The stranger greeted. His voice surprised Patroclus, hushed and intimate and coiling serpentine amongst the ribs. He sat down in the grass too, with the intention of looking non-threatening, though he left a polite distance between them.

“Good morning to you, stranger.” Patroclus nodded, smiling carefully, so intrigued and confused that he was having a hard time not being delighted. A man who loves a puzzle, indeed.

“What a sweet voice, you have.” The stranger mused, airy and unaffected as though he wasn’t audibly bleeding into his own lung.  _ Did you come here to give up? _

“You’ve got the whole Underworld on a shortage there.” He replied, pointing to the lockbox. The stranger sighed, wetly.

“So I have discovered.”

“I have no more to give, but,-“ Patroclus paused, mind running a mile a minute. Lord Hades did not want Olympus in his affairs, because they were not ready for Persephone to be discovered. Should the stranger die, they would arrive in the house of Hades, possibly right in front of Persephone. Should the stranger be held prisoner, it would provoke war. If the stranger were returned to the surface, would they die there? If they were healed and then returned, would Lord Hades be displeased that they received no punishment for trespassing? 

“But?” The stranger prompted at his silence, revealing the gaze of an eye as red as blood, rage and carnage, red as cherry and ruby, as red as roses. A thorn fell from his cloak. 

Patroclus made a split second decision that would at best buy them more time, and at worst be considered fraternization.

“If you answer some of my questions along the way, Eros, then I’ll show you where it comes from.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all very clever little imps and every day I read all your comments and squeal with delight, thank you for all the love!!


	11. Kiss of Styx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where does Patroclus acquire the Kiss of Styx, and what are the intentions of the intruder?

He walks for a while at the side of their intruder,- Eros, he reminds himself, no longer anonymous-, up the length of the winding Lethe in comfortable silence for nearly an hour. He knows not if the silence is caused by how precious breath is to a wounded lung, or something inherent to the godling’s personality. It does not bother Patroclus; he is not one to talk without something to say either. Though he was promised a few answers.

“Can you spare the air to soothe my curiosity?” Patroclus asked, eyes studying what lies beyond Eros white cloak. The hood of the thing was spacious and long, and the way it hung combined with the length of his hair obscured a lot of surface. Every feature he caught glimpse of was lovely, as to be expected from a child of Aphrodite, and sure to be breathtaking once he finally saw them all together. His skin was a pretty brown- though slightly grayed with pain- spattered with beauty marks in picture perfect places. His brows and lashes were dark compared to the downy white of his hair, which flowed loose and long to his waist. He wasn’t quite as tall as Patroclus, but taller than Zagreus. Many tales of Eros paint him a child, still plump and pink and doted upon by his parents. The god in front of him is unmistakably a man, lithe and slender but toned like a warrior, if only a young and green one.

“Ask as you please.” He replied politely, though with a dismissive little wave of his hand and a wet huff. “My replies,- may be short,- for a time, you understand.”

“I have also drowned in blood, so there are few that can empathize more than I. I will not ask for more breath than you can spare.” He assured, tilting his head in thought as they strolled at a pace that would be leisurely for those not mortally wounded. “Would it be amenable to you, if I only asked questions as can be answered in  _ yes _ or  _ no?” _

He swore he saw a peek of a tired smile.

“Yes.” 

“Perfect. Watch your step there.” Patroclus pointed down at a particularly damp patch of moss in the godling's path. Without thinking he offered his arm to lean on, only realizing he had done it once it was taken. _He is hurting more than he is showing, Patroclus knows this._ _The more he moves the more he bleeds._

“Were you sent into the Underworld with a set task, or any premeditated purpose?” He finally asked, after deciding how best to phrase it.

“No.” Eros laughed miserably, stumbling just a little.

“Is Olympus aware that you are missing?” 

“Yes.”

Patroclus chews his bottom lip in concentration, a habit that had drawn blood when he yet lived, but he no longer had to worry about chapped lips giving way to peeling skin to bite at.

“Do they look for you?” He asks again, looking more thoroughly at Eros to see what side the wound is on. It is on his left, the side closest to Patroclus.  _ What a coincidence. _ He circles around him to stand at his right and takes his arm, gentle so as not to provoke a surprised attack. He slings the right arm over his shoulder, taking significantly more of Eros weight from him and guiding him away from slippery places in the grass and moss.

“No.” He said, with absolute surety and near amusement. Relieved as he was to hear it, it confused him. Aphrodite favored Eros over all her other children and made little effort to hide it. And despite Ares lust for carnage he was fiercely protective, encouraging, and rumored to be a  _ doting _ father,- having raised all his sons alone out of necessity since their mother was a married woman. Why would neither parent search for him? Why not the other Olympians?

They came to a shallow bend in the Lethe that required them to cross over wet rocks and a swift current. The water was only just above ankle deep, but Patroclus would take no chances with a wounded soldier in life, and it was a hard habit to break in death.

“Do not be angry, please.” Patroclus requested, unwinding the arm around his shoulder and crouching slightly. He can’t throw Eros over one shoulder or he might irritate the wound enough to kill him. There would be less pressure on his middle if he was carried across both his shoulders, but not  _ no _ pressure. Thus, he swooped up an Olympian in his mortal arms like a damsel, looking all the part of a husband with a bride all dressed in white.

Eros coughed once and it sounded suspiciously like a laugh as his personal ferryman began walking through the shallow water and feeling around for rocks.

“Are you-,” he gasped, “going to buy-, me a drink-, first?” His smile was stained gold and metallic with blood, and Pat wondered if he inherited the fangs from his father or his mother.

“Am I not doing that right now?” Patroclus countered as soon as his feet returned to dry grass. There should only be two chambers left, but it was at a steep incline. Eros was not heavy, so he would not make him walk it himself. “Did the satyrs from the Temple give you that wound?”

“No.” Eros said, clear and immediate. In any other situation it would have sounded defensive, but Patroclus believed him. Young men were proud, but rarely proud enough to lie through bloody teeth on their deathbed. Rarely, but not never, he amended to no one.

They crossed into the final chamber before their destination, the steepness of the hill a more challenging but not impossible climb. The angle made the flow of the Lethe here faster and louder. Not deafening like surface rapids, but more lively by far than the lazy eddies in Elysium’s lowlands. 

Patroclus adjusted his grip and trudged onward, the pair quiet except for a tiny and sweet little  _ ‘oh!’ _ from the godling when he saw how many butterflies gathered here, in more daring colors than elsewhere. The blue ones from the lowlands gathered here of course, and then also the large colonies of pink ones entwined and peaceful if only for the moment.

But here there were also flurries of tiny yellow ones, wings no bigger than a pinky nail. There were bold and daring ones he had never seen elsewhere, orange and black like a tiger, gold and spotted like a leopard. A particularly breathtaking one, violet and lavender, landed primly on Eros’ nose for a moment,- who smiled sadly at it- opening and closing its wings three times before fluttering away. 

They came upon the chamber door he had been looking for, or the ruins of one. It didn’t actually function like the others and appeared far older, allowed to wither and grow moss and mold and vine. It does not open, but has crevices and cracks more than large enough to fit a shade three times his size. The Lethe at its shallowest flowed from underneath, wetting Patroclus sandals as he stepped gently between the stone ruins, carefully minding Eros’ wound and limbs and head.

It was a fountain room, though it had long been abandoned by the House of Hades. Patroclus had ushered Zagreus several times into the ones recently commissioned, utilitarian but crisp and sturdy and clean. This ancient one was its opposite: ornate but crumbling, decaying and overgrown. The shades that lingered in here were too old and too deeply steeped in the Lethe to even remember their names or faces, appearing more like shapes and shadow with no discernible features or limbs.

“We are very high up.” Patroclus explained, sitting the godling gently against a long fallen pillar before returning to his full height and gazing upward with his hands on his hips. “You can feel the cold from the surface, and if you look in that corner there are a few living tree roots.” He pointed. 

Eros blinked slowly up at it, his full face now visible. He was beautiful in the way gods are, of course; Zagreus was beautiful, Lady Nyx was beautiful, Hypnos and Thanatos were beautiful. But it was clear that his particular beauty was a part of Eros’ domain. He was pretty almost in the way a woman would be, and the handsomeness of his jaw was the only thing keeping his appearance firmly male-leaning.  _ Was Lord Ares handsome, he wondered? What use would War have for beauty? But then what interest would Aphrodite take in a plain visage, or in a gruesome one? _

“The Styx flows red and steady through the Temple and out into Greece. Below it flows from Tartarus down to the House of Hades.” Patroclus said quickly dismissively, as surely it was widely known, but took more care with his next words. “It does not break path or sway in its course but it does change its shape. It wears many faces.”

He paused to see if Eros was alright, and only received slow fluttering lashes and swaying in reply. He walked over to crouch in front of him and hold out his own hand, waiting. The godling, hazy with blood loss, looked at him with near comical confusion before he realized the silent request, reaching into his many folds of white robes to place several empty glass vials into Patroclus’ hand.

“The Kiss of Styx is water from the Temple, where the river changes from blood red to deep blue- or so it has been explained to me.” Patroclus continued. “I theorized the magic and power behind it to be the nature of a _ threshold _ , between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The water there will allow one to defy death once.”

“Not,- yours.” Eros replied, broken but alive. Patroclus nodded to confirm that yes, the Kiss of Styx (Premium) was different.

“This fountain is poised high, where the Styx becomes the Lethe instead.” Patroclus uncorked one vial and filled it from one of the redder pools before capping it and starting another. “I wondered what would happen at this threshold instead. Not life and death, but death and memory.”

As he finished filling the last vial he placed it at his side, reaching to a ledge to collect and wash a long abandoned pitcher to fill as well and bringing all to the wounded godling. He needed help to drink it from the larger vessel, as his arms were now too weak.  _ Did you enchant the Exalted to fight for you or to protect you? _

“So in theory, the water here  _ forgets  _ a few deaths. Replaces them as though it had never happened.” Patroclus finished, setting down the pitcher and watching Eros wipe his face clean, taking a few breaths that dried a little at every pass until he could almost fill both lungs completely without coughing, though the rattling sound did not disappear and he still looked gray-skinned and pale-lipped.

“You haven’t taken me to Hades.” Eros observes, the question unspoken as he slouches a bit more into the pillar at his back, wincing. Patroclus drops from his crouch to sit flat, relishing the near frosty temperature this high up if only for its novelty.

“I have not.” he nodded. “The situation is muddled. The House of Hades is healing from a delicate wound, and interference from Olympus would shake it’s foundations.”

“I am Olympian in the nature of blood, but I do not live on the mountain or do their bidding.” the godling assured him. He had a nice voice too- a little gritty and raspy- a natural part of the tonal quality now instead of from injury. He reached for the pitcher again, taking water into his mouth to swish the blood out of his teeth and spitting it out before taking another sip.

“Many do not, or so I am told, so I believe you.” Patroclus replied, and meant it. He heaved a great sigh, and was tempted to lay flat on his back to think but did not want to remain vulnerable now that Eros was perishing slightly slower. Trust is not so easily gained, not from a mind as wary as his. His cunning is a curse, in that he also expects the same from everything and everyone around him, rarely relaxed.

“Unlikely that Lord Hades would take my word for it, though.” Eros observed, keen-eyed. “Would he take yours, even?”

“He may be convinced that  _ I _ believe it, but he is too shrewd and suspicious to be at peace with the assurance of a single mortal shade.” he shrugged, watching the slow drip of red water from the ceiling, making the mangled roots appear to bleed. There must have been a pretty mosaic up there at one point; it glittered if he turned his head just so. “Thus is the reason I am at a loss: Lord Hades would not want you to arrive at his doorstep. He would not punish you with imprisonment, as surely that would provoke Olympus. If you were returned to the surface so grievously injured, you would likely die without access to this fountain, and would once again arrive in the house of Hades.”

Eros seemed to pick at the hem of his cloak in his lap, huffing through his nose in a bratty way that reminded Patroclus of a much younger Achilles.

“It is easy to enter the Underworld, and difficult to leave. I am trapped.” he said morosely, but with a hint of true anger underneath. “Even if someone here could aid the wound and then release me, my foe remains waiting. He aimed to kill, and will not likely hesitate to finish the job as soon as he is able.”

Patroclus tried to hold back a chuckle, but could not hide his smile no matter how much he pursed his lips or bit his cheek.

“If nothing else, I suppose I can die comfortably and at peace, knowing I have amused you so thoroughly with my woes.” Eros mused.

“I do not mean to mock you, of course.” Patroclus promised, raising a hand briefly to assuage any doubt. “I was tickled at the notion that of all your infamous siblings,- Fear and Dread, Warrior and Amazon alike, it is you that makes the most enemies. I do not doubt you could be twice as fierce as they are, if you so chose.”

Eros seemed to show his youth at this, crossing his arms over his middle in what was absolutely a pout, turning his head to a far wall. “You mock me.” he accused, ruby eyes glinting harshly as though they would burn a hole in the cold stone.

“I speak genuinely.” Patroclus said, eyes full of grim mirth as he philosophized. “I have lived a life that has proved your prowess and your potency. They call you Desire only, but I often thought that isn’t the whole of it.”

“Oh, you think of me so often, do you?” he retorted, a sentence he could have made coquettish but delivered so dryly that it made Patroclus laugh again, full and unhidden.

“I am a ghost. My mind has a lot of time to wander, and when my death was fresh I had no qualms about spending all that time cursing every god as thoroughly as I could manage. Save you, and a few others.” he explained, turning to see that the godling’s curiosity was indeed winning out over his desire to remain insulted.

“Agape, pure and holy, has to start somewhere. Pragma, aged to perfection, has to grow from a seed planted. They are often born from you, are they not? From Romance?” he prompted, waiting for a reply.

“Not always..” Eros shrugged, looking strange and thoughtful, encroaching on the realm of  _ shy. _

“Such was the case for me then, I should say.” Patroclus relinquished. “The most treasured parts of my soul, they are. I have never doubted you and never cursed you.”

Eros is a stranger still, but Patroclus can only imagine that he  _ does _ make many enemies simply obeying his own nature, and sits before him unsure because he is rarely afforded kindness. Perhaps it is that Ares and Aphrodite are indeed doting and loving, and his adulthood has thrown him into a world too quick to curse him. Or attempt to murder him. 

He sits now with his arms still folded, staring at the floor in front of him so he doesn’t have to meet his eye in the quiet. Patroclus decided to grant him mercy from his ramblings, and rose to his feet.

“This place is abandoned and mostly forgotten.” he said to the godling who made no move to rise. “It is a good place to rest if you can keep it that way, yes?”

“I suppose so.”

He turns to leave the chamber and Eros in peace, but remembers something at the doorway that made him pivot and pause.

“I will alert the Exalted that has been tracking you to cease, if in turn you abandon the hunt on him.”

He nods from his seat, reclining and slouching even further as he observed the vials closely. His hood is finally loosed from his head, revealing his laurels as thick as a wreath. He is adorned with thorns, it seems, only because it is roses that sprout from his head, heart-wrenching and red as blood.

“As you say, Patroclus.”

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As soon as I figure out how to post a picture on here, I will do so!! I am a digital artist on tumblr in the mean time, and have a few sketches of Eros that I will share soon. If I can figure it out on here, I will post it in a chapter! Otherwise you can find me at miraculan-draws!


	12. Sun/Prophecy/Medicine/Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vision granted, but from whom?

_ If he wished to be unseen, he would be unseen. Felt perhaps, but not noticed unless he willed it so. _

_ He walked silently through a wide open fortress. One with many powerful wardens, but not one stirred from their slumber, for his bare feet made no sounds on the rock. Even as a child the night had been a comfort. Now as a man, he preferred the dark to the bright of day, where it could be argued his domain was more vast. He did not speak of the draw to it, or how the sun often bothered his eyes. It made his father grow quiet and sad, made his mother change the subject. _

_ As he walked he stopped in the armory, fully stocked as it had always been. The priests of this temple wore no flowing robes, so their effects must be stored somewhere to be maintained and respected. Against the farthest wall were the family’s armor and weaponry, which they cared for themselves. _

_ At the very center rack, of course, was his Lord Father’s metal plate. Regal in its position, the metalwork of the eagles eyes seemed to pierce into his own. The short cape was clipped lovingly to the back, a proud crimson gift from the Spartans that worshipped him so and that he favored in return. _

_ Framing his fathers gear on the left and right hung the armor of his elder brothers. Identical twins, so their armor was also identical at first glance. These did not bear the symbolic bird of prey, were not made of adamant white metal. They were heavy but leather, tanned skillfully to the likeness of storytelling vases and pottery. The images thereon were not the same on each, but similar. _

_ Phobos and Deimos, his father’s left and right hand who idolized him and followed wherever he went. They wore the same face but were different in disposition.  _

_ Phobos- Fear and Anxiety, Horror at his worst,- was loud and restless. He battled like a madman, laughed when he took particularly nasty hits and was scolded often for dishonorable sportsmanship.  _

_ Deimos- Dread and Doom, Resignation at his best,- was calculating and stubborn. He did what need be done with little thought spared for alternate resolutions. He did not often lose, but knew when to concede when he did. _

_ Apart from these, set aside in a corner, was his own gear. He hardly covered himself, much to the chagrin of the more practical warriors. An archer’s guard on the left side of his chest, bracers on his calves and forearms,  _ _ pteruges _ _ around his hips short and light-weight. The strips of leather on these had been jokingly hammered into the shape of feathers, which he eventually grew fond of. _

_ He began taking his armor from their places and putting them on. First the guard, then the  _ _ pteruges, _ _ then the bracers. He eyed his sandals and decided to carry them instead of donning them so his footsteps would not carry in the cavernous halls. Lastly, he took his quiver and his lovingly crafted bow and secured them reverently to his back. _

_ He took out two of the notes he had written- small enough to fit the length of his hand when he rolled and tied it- and placed it securely behind the pins of his brother’s capes on the left where it would be easily seen. He cared for them both like any younger brother would, but hesitated to think they returned any true fondness. Still, he would not leave without this little goodbye. _

_ The final note he placed on his father’s armor, tied with a gold ribbon. His heart was at his throat with this one, and he had to pause to wipe at wet eyes as he secured it to the pin with trembling hands. _

_ Páppa, _

_ It has been long since I’ve stopped being a child, but I confess that I have yet to find my way, cursed to wander. I left this place once to see if it could be found amongst my mother’s realm only to return empty handed, and now I fear I must leave you all again. _

_ Thank you for your mentorship, for I could not attempt such wanderlust had you not raised me as a warrior. (Though I know your generals think me a milksop. I laugh of course, because they are right.) _

_ More than that however, I must thank you for knowing I would need a different kind of teacher than Phobos and Deimos,- that I would need you to love me. Thank you for holding my hand, and for allowing my tears, and letting me sleep strapped to your back as a child while you gave orders to your many soldiers. I hope it did not lessen you in their eyes, as in mine it only raised you up. _

_ I know not where I will go or when I shall return, only that I could never stay away forever. And when I do return, hopefully it will be with wiser eyes and grand tales of adventure. No hell will need be raised in the name of my absence, for if I am successful I plan to raise it myself whenever it pleases me. _

_ I love you. Keep the twins in line, if you can manage. _

_ For this scroll, he decided to pluck a rose from his laurel- one with a broad green leaf and a cruel barb of a thorn- and tuck it under the binding ribbon. His brothers would not covet the gesture, for they would not wear such a decoration. He left the room in a rush, before his aching heart could persuade the soul to stay where it was comfortable.  _

_ He quickly climbed the narrow spiral of stairs in the armory, feet quick and sure on long familiar steps. Upon reaching the roof, he took a deep inhale of tanned leather and iron, exhaled just as the breeze picked up. Such a dark night it was, a new moon. Fitting at least, and the stars shined ever brighter for it. _

_ He approached the edge of the roof, relishing the feel of wind even as it tangled his long hair and loosed a few leaves from his laurel. He allowed his wings to unfurl from the nothingness they rested in when not in use.  _

_ His brothers teased him about it when he was small and flightless, calling him ‘cherub’ and ‘dovey’ and their absolute favorite ‘little chicken’. Now that he and the wings both were long since grown, even the twins could not help but be impressed at the strength of them, enormous and imposing.  _

_ He recalls fondly the day he returned to his father’s fortress, having spent his adolescence with his mother. His brothers and his father had not seen him as a man before, as a god as formidable as they were.  _

_ He returned to a raid on the fortress, their enemy so skilled as to have put the twins thoroughly on the defensive, wounded and panting but stalwart as always. When he joined the fray himself, they did not recognize him. He was too fast in flight, swooping enemies up and dropping them down. He could fire his bow with pinpoint accuracy even from a death drop mid-air, and had to deflect arrows that Phobos shot at him in the confusion. _

_ It wasn’t until he landed in front of them, shielding them from the invading general himself with a knocked arrow at the ready that they recognized him. It took them a moment, frozen with wide eyes and confused brows and mouths agape. They actually screamed, jumping and hollering like they were little boys at a coliseum arena, shaking each other like they weren’t already looking. _

_ He smiled fondly at the memory and dove off the roof, swooping to catch the strongest wind and letting it carry him to his next stop. _

_ ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: _

_ The fortress may be full of sleeping soldiers at night, but his mother’s temple was rarely desolate. Quieter at night yes, for most mortals slept in the dark and rose with the light, but not all- and not always. _

_ These vast halls were just as towering and grand, but made of white marble instead of brutal stone. Every surface decorated with drapery and glittering gold, flowers upon flowers for the goddess of beauty. There were straggling groups of priestesses still meandering the halls, and they fawned over him as he passed. One tucked a pink rose among the red ones of his laurel, one kissed his hand, some smiled brightly and waved, some bowed. Most simply greeted him with a polite nod as he approached the high priestess, who cupped his face to kiss him in greeting, pointing him in the direction he could find his mother. _

_ The goddess sat perched in her chambers, cross-legged on a large floor cushion in front of the ornate round mirror. The pink fabric draped over her was shapeless and soft, the same color as her hair and as the rose one of her followers had given him, fitting for the season. She was without adornment or jewelry, maintaining the endless length of her hair before she caught his eyes in the reflection. _

_ ‘Well, hello my darling.’ She greeted him, noticing in the mirror that he had not changed into the thin and flowing drapery to match the priestesses- as he normally did while working in the Temple. She made no mentions of his armor, though he knew she made note of it. _

_ “Hello, Mamma.” He nodded with a bow of his head.  _

_ “Did you grow bored? Such a tight schedule at the fortress, not a soul to be found past sunset.” She complained, setting to the daunting task of weaving her hair into a single braid. _

_ “Will you let me help you, Mamma?” He laughed, noticing what was likely true physical strain in her arms. _

_ “Yes, I think I will let you, now that you mention it.” She sighed in relief and made a silly little face, letting her arms plop down to her lap dramatically. _

_ He sat behind her, taking the decorative brush and using it to separate hair more than to detangle- because it did not tangle. _

_ “There is a festival soon, is there not?” He asked as he worked. _

_ “Isn’t there always?” She complained in good nature, filing away at her nails. She glanced up at him in the reflection occasionally to smile. “But surely it is no festival that brought you here tonight?” _

_ “I could never keep track of them.” He shrugged, halfway down a braid that must surely be as heavy as rope. “I wanted to visit before I left for a journey, is all.” _

_ “Oh?” She said curiously. “How exciting! Where are you going?” _

_ “...I do not know.” He admitted. His lady mother hummed a sweet and thoughtful sound, letting silence linger for a moment as he finished the end of the braid. There were little decorations for her hair in a pretty dish to her right, but he ignored them for now as he secured the length. _

_ ‘Such journeys are important, the ones without true destination.’ She nodded, tilting her head as if she did not know if she meant her words. _

_ He eyed the dish of gold and silver and crowns once more, but instead pulled another blossom from his laurel to place at the back of her head right where the braid started. It would be plenty secure just by its stem alone, but he fastened it with a pretty gold pin. It was a twin to the one he left tied to his fathers scroll with golden ribbon, and again he felt his heart as his throat. He did not cry here, though, as he did there.  _

_ “I do not know when I will see you next, for I do not know what it is I seek.” He said, rising to his feet as his mother did. “But I did not want you to think I had simply vanished.” _

_ “Thank you, flower.” She said, cupping his face as the priestess had but squishing his cheeks into a funny shape and giving him a peck on the lips, then one on the nose, one on the forehead. “Fierce one.” She called him, tucking his snowy hair behind his ear. _

_ He nodded as she walked past him out of the room, not knowing if he was meant to follow but also not knowing if he wanted to. He gazed out her balcony and admired the billowing white curtains, called to the siren song the wind sang. _

_ He opened her wardrobe, taking the white hooded cloak she wore when she disguised herself as a priestess and donning it over his armor. It billowed like the curtains did when he stood on the balcony. _

_ He tried not to think too long about how his mother looked at him more through her reflection in the mirror than she did face to face, but the thought took root without his permission and made him take his second leap into the night.  _

_ ::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: _

The vision changed rapidly from location to location, summer mountains and scorching deserts, dark jungles, bustling villages and glittering palaces. So many places that ages must have been passing before his eyes.

_ A forest nearing twilight cast pretty shadows on cool grass. The sun warmed the air, still some time before it’s set, and yet the afternoon moon hovered impatient in the sky. He had thought to find a high place to watch the change, to let the creeping dark of night soothe his still restless soul when the sound of bickering voices dropped like cold lead into his stomach. _

_ ‘If you come only to pester me, then make yourself scarce. Your loud mouth sends the deer running.’ _

_ ‘A moving target is more a challenge anyway! Besides, would you not-..’ _

_ An abrupt halt as he was spotted. Artemis and Apollo. _

_ ‘ _ **_You_ ** _!’ The bright god hissed, chasing him down and landing a right hook before pinning him to a great oak. The bark scraped his back bloody, and his head throbbed at the collision. ‘Thrice damned whore,’ he spat, voice sharp as knives in his throat, ‘Wretched demon, what will it take for you to leave me be?’ _

_ He huffed a laugh through a bloody mouth, punch-drunk, watching a fleck of it land next to a furious golden eye. His twin was shouting something behind him. _

_ ‘You have paid me nothing but insults since the day we met, several too grave to let pass. It is no concern of mine if you are too weak to bear it in return. The score is settled.’ He explained as if to a half-witted child. _

_ ‘I will settle only for blood, same as you spilled, and you will find I hold no fear for your father.’ Apollo replied gravely, reaching for a knife at his hip that was heard but not seen. _

_ ‘I do not spill mortal blood to bathe in it, you fucking incompetent.’ he replied in indignant disbelief, in hot anger. ‘Your own blundering spills it, if not your duplicity, or your cruelty for that matter.’ The knife pressing to his throat silenced him if only for a moment. Artemis was moving but he could not see her. There were more footsteps as well, more crunching of grass and packing of snow. _

_ ‘You speak to me of cruelty?’ The other asked in shock, in miserable rage and sorrow. He shook his head. ‘There will be no one to miss you after I’m done with you, so infamous is your own.’ _

_ Apollo moved his arm to the side to swing the knife but it was caught mid-stroke with a rope of vines. Several arrows whistled and stuck into his back, a few looking like they pierced the armor as he was dropped from the grip.  _

_ Wood nymphs, and Artemis. Apollo managed to land a slice on his arm before he scrambled away, as nymphs tried to wrestle the other god away. _

_ ‘Get out, go!’ Artemis called, her own bow in her hands instead of on her back. His pride nearly demanded he stay, but he would not do anything to warrant the ire of  _ **_both_ ** _ twins. _

_ He crouched and leapt, making a huge gust with his wings at take off. He didn’t look back to the brawl behind him, trying to steady his nerves and think of a solution to the rivalry he did not ask for. _

_ He was riding a thermal gust, so high that he had left his guard down, when he heard the whistle of another arrow. It moved so fast he had no chance to adjust course. He heard it land before he felt the sting, so sure in it’s trajectory that it pushed him sideways to pull along with it. He was plummeting with no aim, yet he could pay the fall no mind. The pain had been delayed by the swiftness of the hit, but he was now intimately aware with every twitch and breath that there was an arrowhead lodged between his ribs on the left, serrated and inhumane. It could not be removed, and he was running out of sky to spare. _

_ He tried to correct, to level out in agony as he distantly heard the sound of more distant shots fired. He thought of dark places, of caves and night time fortresses and temples too far out of his path. He had no destination in mind, which was starting to wander in the strange way of the sleeping or the dying, and found himself following the winding of a river. _

_ :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: _

_ The vision grew erratic and horrible then, flashing pained images of satyrs being felled left and right, of being slammed into a wall with a sickening crunch and the desperate flailing of a broken wing. The arrowhead burned and scorched like a sun. _

_ A bright flash of sun washed away the Temple of Styx and revealed the roar of a battlefield, a desert sun scorching overhead and bleaching the packed dirt. Blood flew left and right, covered his suddenly olive arms and felt itchy and sticky as it dried. It did not slow him, nor did any foe he passed, to his misery and to his rage as he growled through his teeth. The whistle of an arrow was easily ignored, as always. He’d plucked five from his body the night before and rose again with little consequence but this time- _

_ Pinned. He could not lift his leg to continue his stride, could not call upon immortal speed to dash out of the arrows path, for it had already found its mark. He looked down to see where the arrow went through his heel and lodged into the red earth. He could not feel it, looked down at it frozen to the point of numbness with an eerie calm.  _

_ The sound of a second arrow flying turned the vision to pitch with a sickening  _ **_thwack_ ** _ , absolute and silent before warping again, flashing and shuffling and disorienting to the point of nausea. _

_ A courtyard under the same sun, too close quarters, the panic of realizing he was bottlenecked. He was not supposed to fight here, he thought, countering an enemy spear with his own, and another and another. He couldn’t keep up with counter measures, could not parry because he could not twist and could not twist because the armor was stiff and snug. A shield bashes him at the back of the head, sending sparks of color over his vision as he trips onto his knees. He sinks a knife into the assailant by throwing it at full force, watching him to make sure he fell- but his eyes missed the wounded soldier to his left crawl forward, the sun glinting off of the ruined blade clenched in his hand- _

_ Slammed at full force between his ribs, punching the air out of the lung it pierced. He wheezed as he collapsed, face against too-hot stone as his gasping grew wet and his assailant limped away. His mind wandered strangely, in the way of the sleeping or the dying.  _

Patroclus woke with a gasp, shooting upright in bed and clutching at his side, expecting to feel blood until his eyes adjusted to the dim evergreen blue light filtered through the curtains. He swore he could feel it, the scorching of the shattered blade in his side, but it faded with every exhale even as his shoulders continued to tremble. So long he had been staring catatonically at the sheets that he had not noticed Achilles upright beside him- shivering and gaunt and looking at him with desperate bewilderment. Patroclus would have asked him once, but there was no need. He knew Achilles had seen everything he had. 

He collapsed onto his back with a final sigh, wiping a hand down his face as he stared dumbly at the ceiling. Just as he was calculating the best way to break his lover out of his grim trance, his golden head turned to face him, looking almost as weary and aged as he did when they first reunited.

“Do you want to go get a fucking drink?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hades is a bad father, but Ares is not. That's gonna be my hot take.


	13. As Above, So Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles is a field medic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of juicy information in this one! How much of it is aid and how much of it harm?

“I know we agreed to wait, but I think the House should be made aware of this.” Achilles said, looking into the bottle of nectar he’d been nursing. He looked better than he did immediately following their previous rude awakening, but not by much.

The tavern they were in was so lively as to be completely private. So many candles lined the shelves and walls and tables that the room was warm with the flame and with the hazy orange light. Various conversations overlapped in such a frequency that it became a white noise, punctuated by glass clinking against itself.

“Whenever we next see Zagreus, we will explain. You might even go to him first.” Patroclus replied, downing the remaining half of his drink in one go. Achilles raised his brow but did not comment. They bought plenty, so he simply uncorked another.

“Not to be grim,” Achilles started, his tone bordering on sarcastic. He paused on purpose, giving Patroclus plenty of time to stop him if he chose to.

“Might as well get all the gloom out in one evening, darling.” He shrugged, plopping backward so his back slumped lower on the bench.

“It was Apollo that eventually convinced me to fight, if you can believe it.” Achilles mused, eyes still down on the table. “Well, I guess it could be argued that Briseis tried first.”

Patroclus clenched up at the mention of her name, the first he’s heard it spoken here. The surface is cruel to womenfolk, as Hector reminded him. Briseis was to be a spoil of war, and the other generals would have it gladly be so. It made Patroclus stomach churn, so he told Achilles to ‘claim’ her himself, if only to ensure that they’d leave her be.

She had been bitter and cruel with plenty of good reason, but eventually Patroclus grew very fond of her. Achilles knew, and so protected her from Agamemnon by any means necessary.

“Only tried?” He eventually replied.

“She cleaned the blood and sand off of you.” Achilles continued with the same eerie calm that Pat remembered from the horrid vision of the arrow. “Cursed me and clawed at me and slapped me when I entered. I tried to kill myself but she stopped me, told me if this did not finally move me to battle that you would never forgive me.”

“Gods, Achilles..” he huffed, rubbing at his temples in pain and horror.

“She left in the morning and I never saw her again. I stayed there with you for three days before Apollo came, telling me a Greek battalion not far from there would be slain without me, that I needed to go to them.” He continued. “He promised me he would keep your body from rotting while I was away.”

...

Patroclus knew as soon as they became romantically involved that he would die young. The gods surely do not speak it, but they target the lives of halfling immortals, rarely letting a demigod make it to old age without torturing them a little first. The whole of Olympus wanted influence over his glory, and what better way than to interfere with Patroclus as well? They might as well have slain him themselves and pretended to weep with Achilles...

_ Wait. _

“Hector said he didn’t believe that he bested me fairly.” Patroclus suddenly remembered, pulled from the sickening tragedy with a strangely cleansing anger. “I did not know what he meant by it.”

“You think that is what connected the pieces of the dream? Wounds cursed by Apollo?” Achilles asked, voice more firm than he’d heard before. It was smoother once upon a time, he recalled. Less hoarse.

“The god of Prophecy, is he not?” Patroclus scoffed, thinking of ways he could tell Hector that actually, after some thought, he  _ was _ mad about it. “Manipulative son of whore. Had a hand in my death, then turned to comfort you to gain your trust, then orchestrated yours.”

“You think he planned that far in advance?” Achilles mused, opening his second bottle. “I jest. I know he did.”

Patroclus tried to recall what his love had told him not long ago, about anger and what not to do with it.  _ In life your rage was a cold thing, but here it simmers. _ He definitely felt it simmer, so much so that it made him itch and squirm in his seat. That could also be the drink, he supposed.

“I would love to know what Eros did to anger him so, if only to soothe my own.” Patroclus shook his head. The mosaic on the ceiling in here mimicked a night sky, he noticed.

“He said Apollo insulted him, in the dream. I’m inclined to believe him.” Achilles said, leaning back so they could sit shoulder to shoulder. Some of the anger cooled at the contact, but not all of it. They were here. They were in the same place, that should be all that mattered.

Oh, but Patroclus knew himself a petty thing. He will think of something.

“Do you trust him?” Achilles asked in a sigh, with color finally returning to his face.

“Olympus has brought us only ruin. It would be foolish to trust him blindly.” He replied, and he believed what he said. “But I do. I think if you met him, you would too.”

“Oh, I would, would I?” Achilles drawled. “Are you telling me he is genuine or that he is charming? No-, I misspeak- are you telling me that he is genuine or that he is handsome?”

“Why would a god of sex not be handsome, you daft idiot?” Patroclus laughed, flicking his lover's ear as he rested his chin on the other's head. “You saw what I saw. He searches for his place in a grander scheme. Not so unlike your prince.”

“Remarkably similar, you are right.” He acquiesced. “But I’d sooner trust a son of Hades than a son of Ares.”

“Were you not pleased to hear it was not Phobos or Deimos?”

“I’m undecided.”

Patroclus managed a chuckle, a huff of air through his nose. It was a little thing, but with the night they’ve had it was healing. A balm on an itchy scar. They lounged quietly for a little while, watching other shades make merry conversation. The glow of the candles was pretty, very soft and haloed to his tipsy eyes. Achilles, already tan and gold-headed soaked it in like a sponge. He looked so  _ warm _ that Patroclus pulled him a little closer, just because he could.

“I’d like to look at his wound.” Achilles mumbled. “I do not know if a god would benefit from stitches and bandages, but it would be better than nothing, surely.”

“He is likely still at the fountain. We can go tomorrow, if it pleases you.” He agreed with a peck at the crown of his head.  _ Warm. Still mad though. _

“Casting him out of the Underworld would be a death sentence.” Achilles said with certainty. “Lord Hades would be painted as compliant with his murder at best, an accomplice at worst. I do not fear telling the house of Hades. In fact, it may be the only place he finds true aid.”

“Olympus fears Nyx. They are wary of Thanatos.” Patroclus mused.

“Hypnos has given them a run for their coin once or twice.” Achilles added with a grin.

“It is interesting.” He smiled back, admiring the star-filled ceiling. “That the Olympians come from Titans, the Titans from the primordial, and those from Chaos. They are part of the picture. But the closer a god is to chaos, the more Olympus fears them. Is it not to be admired? Respected, even?”

“I am glad they fear them, for it keeps them away from me. And for the moment, from our darling intruder.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

True to their word, Patroclus trudged back up the hill the next day, this time with Achilles in tow carrying armfuls of medical supply.

Master Chiron had been adamant about teaching them to be medics as much as soldiers, and as young boys they had complained. In war they were grateful for it, as were all their comrades in arms.

_ Patroclus glances to the bandages on his arm and on his leg, tended to ages ago by calloused hands. He removed them several times, as there were no wounds on his ghostly body. Yet he awoke each morning to find them back in place as if they were a part of the picture, immortalized. _

While Achilles carried armfuls of herbs and bandages, salves and stitches, Patroclus carried a few other basics and a few things just for comforts sake: one or two changes of clothes, a few blankets and pillows, a handful of the ties Achilles used to bind his hair.

“It is terribly clever, the way you improved on the Kiss of Styx.” Achilles told him, peering up at the nearness of the petrified root ceiling.

“I am terrible and clever.” Patroclus agreed solemnly. “Half our coin comes from me trading them, so don’t go telling all your friends where it is.”

“Aye, I swear by oath to secrecy.” Achilles said with as flourished of a bow as one could manage with an armful of supplies. When they reached the cross section of fallen pillars that need be squeezed through, he stood aside. “You should go in first.”

He crouched and entered, easier than with an armful of linens than with an armful of grievously wounded deity. Speaking of which.

“Eros?” He asked gently into the dark of the room, hauntingly quiet.

“Oh, it’s just you.” Came the exhausted reply. He limped out of a shadowy corner that he must have hidden in, sitting back down at the fountain with a wince.

“I brought a plus one. We were wondering if we could take a look at your wound.” He asked, setting down his pile of supplies on what used to be a bench. He brought candles as well that he started arranging strategically, both for light and to warm the chilly chamber.

“Such as it is.” Eros acquiesced, as much of a permission as they would likely get. “Is it Achilles?”

“Unfortunately.” Confirmed Achilles, now working his way into the room with all his supplies. They should have thought to bring a basket.

Achilles didn’t pause to study the room, only to dump his arm load on the same bench and turn to observe his patient with his hands on his hips and a tilt of his head. 

“He  _ is _ handsome.” Achilles smirked. “Surely more impressive without the clammy pallor of a corpse.”

“Well, let’s not get our hopes up.” Eros shrugged, a good sport in the face of the tease. A trait gained from being raised with siblings, no doubt. Whether he was implying a jest about his own looks or about his chance for survival was up for debate.

Achilles barked a short laugh, taking a few candles from Patroclus’ arms to help light the room.

“Where did you want these, love?” He asked before he placed one high on an old beam.

“You’re the better healer, put them where the light will aid you most.” He shrugged. “Be careful of the damp, water drips in some places.”

“Where do you need me?” Eros asked. “That way you know where to put your light.”

“Hm.” Achilles pondered, eyes dancing across the room. A ruin, true enough, most every surface was a fallen column or crumbled bench. Even the floor was uneven in places where the stone had buckled and reset. “I think where you are now is the best I’ll get. It is flat for the most part under you.”

“I was hoping you would say that.” The godling admitted, relaxing back into his seat after being prepped to stand. He leaned his head back onto the pillar behind him and heaved a great sigh, still a little wet. The moisture must have tickled, and the cough he suppressed would have been horrid had it come to fruition.

“Poor thing.” Patroclus tsked, bringing his own supplies closer to sit next to Eros. He had met him only one other time, twice if he counted the dream, but it was hard not to be protective of him immediately. He wondered briefly if it was part of his nature, that those around him either scorned him or coddled him.

Patroclus unspooled the bedroll that they had brought, won from a traveling band of Exalted. It was worn at the seams but plenty thick enough to cushion the stone and keep it from stealing the heat away from the body.

“Strip down first.” Achilles said without looking up from his task. He had managed an intriguing little trick: conjuring the sunlight the pair of them could spark on occasion to his fingers. He went around to the candles to pinch them, as if he were putting them out. Instead, he was lighting them.

Eros paused his crawl into the bedroll, groaning at the delay in becoming horizontal.

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” Patroclus scolded, moving to help with his cloak. The way Eros pouted theatrically and flopped his hands down reminded him of Aphrodite in the vision. He set the once-lovely white robes to the side without folding them, though he kept the pile as neat as he could out of respect. They were shredded at the hem, soaked through with ichor in a few places.

Achilles moved his herbs and bandages and rags next to them on the floor, turning to help with Eros’ gear with a sigh.

“Perhaps once returned, you should invest in a chest piece.” Achilles mused as he delicately unbuckled the quiver from the gods back, leaning it against the pillar. Eros eyed it as though he wanted to be wary about being unarmed, but could not muster the energy nor the will.

“It has been frequently on my mind, yes, I should.” He agreed, wincing as he tried to lift his arm on the bad side to allow the archers guard to be removed from his chest. Patroclus struggled with the buckle on this side and apologized under his breath once it was finally gone.

“Do you want your pteruges off?” Achilles asked. “They won’t be in my way.”

“They’ll be uncomfortable to lay on, though, they can come off. The buckle is on my hip, not at the front.” Eros explained with a hiss, tilting his head to the side he was referring to. Patroclus set about this one too, noting that the strips of leather here had indeed been hammered into feathers. Even if it was in jest, the craftsmanship was impeccable.

Eros, down to the short skirt of fabric at his hips and his impressive webs of bandages, was a little more chiseled than Patroclus originally assumed under the robes. He was slender in the middle, yes, but had the distinct figure that archers have: carved at the upper back and chest, powerful in the shoulders. It was obvious that while Ares may have coddled him, he was raised as much a warrior as his brothers were.

“Alright, now you can lay flat.” Achilles agreed, patting the bedroll. Eros took a breath as if to retort, but was halted by Achilles raised hand. “And don’t be cheeky.”

The godling grumbled, but complied. Patroclus noticed that it was a strange amount of trust he was putting in the both of them, to be unarmed and prone and wounded with strangers.  _ He likely has no other options. _

“You must not scold me.” Eros drolled, though it sounded suspiciously like begging one layer below.

“I make no such promises.” Patroclus confessed, perched on his knees on one side of the roll with Achilles on the other, closer to the wound as he began unraveling soaked bandages. Dried gold fabric gave way to wetter and wetter gauze as he unwound from his middle, starting to look fresh enough to glitter.

“Oh, joy.” Achilles said as they finally reached bare skin, pinching the bridge of his nose and massaging it as he looked at the damage. Patroclus took in a sharp breath through his teeth when he saw where his lover pointed.

The shaft had broken off, but the head was still deep in his side.

“That’s why it’s not been healing.” He said without scolding, even though he wanted to. “And it likely couldn’t be removed at the start because it’s serrated.”

“How do you know that?” Eros said suspiciously, tensing up as he turned to look at Patroclus.

“Ah, I had assumed you knew.” Achilles said, pouring some herbal tincture onto his own hands and rubbing it in. “Patroclus and I had the most disturbing vision just last night, of Apollo landing this shot.”

“And the shots Apollo landed on us, with the help of the Trojans.” He added, reaching for the pillow he brought and placing it under their patient’s head.

“Oh.” He replied, quiet and surprised and morose, like when the butterfly landed on his nose. “I am sorry.”

Achilles was deep in thought on how to best remove the arrowhead, busying himself instead with cleaning the wound and prodding at the sides to see if he could feel around for a solution.

“You can make it up to us by satisfying our curiosity, yes?” Patroclus assured. “We wondered what insult Apollo paid you, and what you had done in return to warrant such ire.”

Eros sighed and winced as Achilles worked and cleaned, the smell of medicinal herbs growing cold and sharp in the small room.

“When I was a child old enough to start training with my brothers, my father made sure I could handle myself with whatever was available to me. When I showed promise with a bow, he occasionally asked after other archers to teach me.” He began, blinking up at Patroclus with those odd red eyes. “At first it was Hera. She was very poised and patient with me. Occasionally Artemis would want to hunt with me, and I was allowed to go with her on a few trips, so unfortunately we often crossed paths with Apollo.”

“He teased relentlessly, though I was still a child. Tried to convince me over and over that I belonged with the other Erotes, more suited to being a priest in my mother’s temple than a warrior in my father’s. He would rig my shots or deflect my arrows until Artemis chased him off and commanded him to leave.” He continued. Achilles was trying to clean as gently as he could while being thorough, and it showed in Eros' face with pained twitches of his brow.

“I did eventually join the other Erotes, as an adolescent, years later. It was decadent but dull, the only benefit that the twins and Apollo did not seek me out to hound me. But Mother sent me away from her when it was clear I was a grown man.”

“Why is that?” Achilles asked, brow pinched. His own mother loved him fiercely and babied him even as a soldier, despite her cold disposition. It must have seemed odd to him that warm Aphrodite would send her offspring away from her side.

“Her priests are women only. The other Erotes reside there, but they are forever the shape of children and so permitted to stay.” He explained, biting the inside of his cheek. “Or so she told me.”

“Is that not what you believe it was?” Patroclus prompted, sitting flat to relieve his knees.

“I had-,” he began hesitantly, “I had used my own power to influence her. A piercing arrow for Adonis, and a scratch for her. I did it instinctively, with little thought behind it. She was not-... _ angry _ with me per say, but I heard her talk with the priestesses, and with Apollo and Zeus. She said I should not have been able to do such a thing, that it made no sense that she would have so little control. They suggested I be returned to my father and brothers.”

“We saw you leave your father’s realm, in the vision.” Achilles nodded, grinding something pungent with a mortar and pestle.

“I did. And found so little peace from Apollo’s hounding that I began to think it was a bluff, that he was actually trying to keep me under control or keep an eye on me on either Zeus or my mother’s behalf. He told me once,-  _ ‘little boys should not play games with such sharp toys’ _ ,” he explained with a smirk. “So I told him, _ ‘As you say. I will no longer play games.’ _ And found a way of sending him from my sight.”

Patroclus and Achilles nodded together in understanding,

“I set his sights on a nymph, one of Artemis' friends. Daphne, her name was. It ended horribly, of course, she loathed him and he would not cease his pursuit. She became a tree to be rid of him, and he is still of the firm belief I had the power to make her hate him instead of examining any fault of his own.”

“That was an age ago, however. The one that landed me here was Hyacinth. A mortal man, though lovely. It was going so well that I had assumed myself finally free of Apollo’s watch. But the daft fool forgets that even Spartan sportsmen are no match for the strength of an Olympian. Hyacinth took a stray discus to the head, and bled to death.” He finished, winded with the speech. Patroclus felt a little guilty for prompting such a tale when he heard a particularly damp gasp. He helped him drink from the fountain pitcher as recompense.

“That is quite the rivalry.” Achilles nodded, brows raised as he used a little of the water from the pitcher to dampen his concoction into a paste.

“And Olympus thinks your absence still only wanderlust.” Patroclus concluded, more pieces of the puzzle sliding into place, making the remaining holes all the more glaring.

“Even if they grow suspicious, they hold little love for me.” Eros said matter-of-factly. “Only my father would stand between Apollo and I, and the twins I suppose.”

“We were discussing it in the night, but I am now convinced of it: The House of Hades will stand between you and Apollo.” Achilles said, as sure and clear as he was when he commanded armies.

At Eros’ panicked expression, Patroclus rested a hand on his shoulder. “They do not know of this, we have not seen fit to bring it to them yet.”

“Why would they involve themselves?” He asked, only slightly less tense.

“If Lord Hades turned you away, he would be viewed as allowing your murder, and would share the blame. He cannot afford to have your father’s wrath on him at present.” Patroclus explained.

“Not to mention Lord Hades  _ loathes _ his brother Zeus. He would rather take the side of you and your father than Apollo and his.” Achilles added, trying to decide how to continue with the removal of the arrow without it killing him, biting at his lip and eyeing the wound.

Eros was silent as well, eyes dancing over Achilles as if more information could be drawn from his expression alone.

“Lord Hades' son, Prince Zagreus, is leading the investigation into the security breach. He is kind to a fault, and would not send you away. He is also meddling and witty, and therefore will likely propose brilliant and half-witted solutions in equal measure.” Pat smiled, taking Eros’ hand as Achilles pulled out a small but sharp knife to aid his quest for the arrowhead.

He jolted at the first cut, forcing them to hold him still while he spat venom and curses through his wild-cat teeth, some of which actually made Achilles chuckle. He finally settled in place, furious and complacent as he huffed and puffed and mumbled more insults.

They grew serious however when Achilles warned that he was going after the arrow, and Eros’ pain became a bit more desperate and harder to watch. He stayed as still as he could, trying to remain stoic and failing miserably as he finally shoved his face into Patroclus collar from where he hovered over him to keep him pinned. 

Achilles passed Patroclus a rag, not even looking up from his task. They’d done this hundreds of times, with hundreds of soldiers cursing them in the same position.

“Bite on this or you’ll lose your tongue.” Patroclus said, shoving the twisted rag between Eros teeth and cradling his head closer.

He couldn’t see the wound itself, only Achilles trying to gently loose it from its place. Eros panted wetly, eyes squeezed shut. Serrated as the blade of it was, it couldn’t be simply ripped free, yet too slow of an extraction would simply tear more flesh and viscera. A balance of the two, once he started removing it he did not stop, adjusting it only slightly to one side or the other on occasion when he felt like it was about to stick.

It stuck the most on exit, requiring a more forceful tug to free it that made the godling loose a final howl into Patroclus armor. He tried to catch his breath now that it was out, pulling back slightly to get more air. Pat removed the rag, used it to wipe blood from his mouth and tears from his eyes.

Achilles was now working with true swiftness, knowing the removal likely did the same damage as the entry. He made for the hooked needle he favored, already threaded in preparation. The lung was more Patroclus concern, and he regularly had to aid Eros in drinking from the fountain pitcher to stave off death via blood loss. As soon as he made the thought to reach for the HydraLite, which would actually aid in the knitting of flesh, Achilles was already passing it over to him with a bloody hand.

The HydraLite seemed to go down easier for the godling, hopefully because it eased pain and not because he was slipping away from them.

“Stay awake, fool, I know your father taught you better than that.” Achilles scolded, though his tone was soft and low.

“Alright.” Eros agreed, and did so without complaint, though his lashes fluttered, showing how daunting a task it must have been.

“Fear and Dread are twins, a lesson you already know,- but so are Sleep and Death.” Patroclus mused, wetting a clean rag and dripping cold water onto his snowy head to help him stay awake. The HydraLite seemed to be helping, as his breaths were deeper and fuller, dry but still labored.

“Almost there-,” Achilles assured, slippery fingers managing to tie and snip the last of the stitches, “and closed. On the outside, anyway.” He huffed, wiping his hands and beginning to once again clean the blood away. Easier now, that none of it was dry. He finished with the paste he had made earlier, meant to keep infection away underneath bandages-which Patroclus aided him in wrapping.

“When is it safe to sleep?” Eros slurred, exhausted. While Patroclus tied the clean bandages around his torso, Achilles stood and grabbed the second HydraLite. He pulled a vial out from his pocket, one that Hypnos had given them on the way over.

“I wanted to explain what I was doing,” Achilles gestured, waiting for Eros to be watching him. “This is from Hypnos, a syrup made from poppy. It’s for the pain, but it’ll help you rest too.”

“It can cloud the senses, so if you would rather not be left intoxicated, we can forgo it.” Patroclus assured.

“Aye. If you can finish off another of the HydraLite, you should be safe to sleep. If you want the painkiller, I can mix it in. The choice is yours.”

“I would fight you for the damned thing, Achilles.” Eros said, blinking slowly and looking not at all to be in a fighting mood.

“There is no need.” Achilles huffed, smirking as he added about half the tincture to the HydraLite and mixing it with the lid on by shaking it and handing it over. “One last thing, then you can rest.” He assured. Patroclus recognized his tone, speaking to green soldiers in training and likely to a teenage Zagreus during mentorship.

Eros downed this one quickly, either eager to sleep or eager for the poppy to do its job. Likely both. He finished it, setting it firmly and resolutely to the side, and lost consciousness almost immediately- near comical in its swiftness.

Patroclus and Achilles stayed in silence for a while, listening to the drip of Styx water and whistling of not-wind through the cracks in the stone. Eros breathing evened out, lungs sounding much better even with the deep breaths of sleep.

“Would you like to see something interesting?” Achilles asked, breaking the quiet. He handed over the rags covered in ichor, unpleasant and damp in Pat’s hands. “Don’t make that face. Look.” He insisted.

Patroclus did, noticing that the driest places had turned tan in contrast to the metallic gold of the wet blood. As he turned the rags around, approaching the center of the pile where the wettest bandages and rags had been lumped together, he saw what Achilles must have found so interesting.

The wettest spots on the rag, the most saturated, looked as black as ink. 

He looked up at Achilles who was holding out his stained hands, the very tips of his fingers stained with jet that smeared violet and dried like soot among the golden smudges at his wrists. Patroclus let loose a shocked sigh, nearly a desperate laugh.

“And so it continues.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for all the continued feedback, I love hearing from all of you clever little birdies!! I drew Patroclus in his armor on my tumblr right here!
> 
> https://miraculan-draws.tumblr.com/post/643241617660280832/hades-version-of-patroclus-is-so-overwhelmingly
> 
> And Eros!
> 
> https://miraculan-draws.tumblr.com/post/643038935591862272/miraculan-draws-my-embarrassingly


	14. Mirrors of Many Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death Approaches

They lay low for a number for days, maybe weeks.

Procrastinating making a decision regarding the House of Hades and their involvement or lack thereof is what they are truthfully doing, though guilt starts gnawing away at Patroclus’ stomach. Will Zagreus be reprimanded for the lack of progress made on his end? It seemed the longer they waited to share their findings, the more peculiar the reveal would seem.

In addition to this, Patroclus has grown dreadfully protective of Eros, as has Achilles- who is no longer too stubborn to admit it. They check on him as part of their daily routine, redressing his bandages and checking his stitches. He is warm and affable but witty and sharp, truly a creature of roses and thorns. It has been nearly impossible not to be charmed, and therefore impossible not to be reluctant to simply hand him off to the House of Hades to be dealt with by the apathetic lord.

Zagreus, when informed of the situation, seemed to share their sentiments. He did not wish to compromise the secrecy of Persephone’s plan by revealing her too soon, and yet did not wish to throw a wounded stranger back to the wolves. 

“Would you be willing to speak with the prince?” Patroclus asked, doodling absent-mindedly on his ever-increasing and useless stack of notes and observations. The most recent have been about the wound and its progress.

“He is even less an agent of his father than you are of yours.” Achilles assured, tying off the fresh bandages on Eros and rising from the floor. He eyed the old ones every time, looking for any excess bleeding but also for its color. “If he suspects his father would complicate the matter, he will not involve him.”

Eros seemed to think this over, chewing nervously on an ever-bitten lip and glancing to his neat pile of armor. Unarmed in a strange place, he has taken each obstacle in stride without complaint, though it looked like he had several at the ready now.

“Will you both stay with me?” He asked, nervously, as if he feared the answer. Not surprising, that he’d have found a little bit more confidence with them, a bit more security.  _ It seems like it has been a long time since he has met a friendly face, Patroclus thought. _

“If it helps instead of hinders, then of course we will.” Achilles nodded, his sunny grin contagious.

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The three of them were waiting outside the fountain, amongst the grassy incline of tiny flowers. It was slightly warmer out here, which is the reason Patroclus gave for relocating. In truth, he thought Eros would feel less cornered without four decrepit walls on every side.

Achilles was absently eating little red berries they picked the day before as he thumbed through Patroclus’ papers, lounging supine in the grass. Eros had his full attention stolen by the sheer quantities of butterflies in this particular glade- the ones that landed peacefully on Patroclus as always but  _ adored _ Eros in an almost comical way.

He was passing one between both of his hands, letting it walk up and down his arms before placing his opposite hand in its path to change course. There were at least five meandering in his hair, and maybe five more bickering over the best perching places amongst the roses of his laurels. The one in his hands fluttered unexpectedly, landing once more on his nose before wandering off.

Patroclus drew phantom breath to comment, but was interrupted by the light trot of footsteps on grass. He knew without looking it was Zagreus, whose flame-wielding feet warmed the grass and left it fragrant as though kissed by summer sun. _The traits he gained from his mother are more subtle._ _Are all things yet alive in the Underworld drawn from the prince?_

Just as expected, a bouncing tuft of raven hair came into view. Normally crowned with embers of autumn leaves, now with the addition of white-hot sparks that took the shape of little flowers; A parting gift from the Goddess of Spring until her next return. Unexpected then was the god dragged along behind Zagreus, who muttered something darkly that made the prince laugh brightly.

Ever elusive Thanatos, silent in his approach because his feet did not touch the ground as he hovered.

“It is about time you showed, Master Thanatos.” Achilles teased, sitting upright in the grass from his previous lounge. Thanatos seemed stricken, tilting his head at Achilles this way and that like a golden-eyed bird.

“You look different.” Death droned curiously.

Patroclus knew Zagreus and Achilles were prone to following every passing whim of a thought until the subject at hand was lost to the winds, so he interrupted.

“He is how I have known him.” He said, watching a sweet smile bloom on the princes. “Zagreus, this is Eros- son of Ares.”

Ever polite, Zagreus gives a charming if not slightly exaggerated bow that makes Thanatos roll his eyes. “It is an honor to meet you. I’ve heard much about you, but only ever second and third hand stories.”

“Most largely embellish my involvement.” Eros admitted, nodding deeply instead of bowing as they were already seated.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Thanatos said, sounding remarkably close to a tease- Dry as a bone in a way that made Patroclus laugh through his nose.

“You wound me, Thanatos.” Eros, tone even but arms theatric. “It has been a long time since I’ve seen you. I like what you’ve done with your hair.”

Zagreus strolled over to plop down in the grass next to Achilles shoulder to shoulder. He made to sneakily steal berries and snacks from his former mentor, but found them offered up freely instead. 

“You should. You are among one of the many reasons it was shorn.” Thanatos smirked, letting his imposing scythe vanish from his hand so he could join the others in the grass. “Being mistaken for you caused a great many complications for work.”

Patroclus pondered this as they chuckled, trying to picture Thanatos with hair long enough to mistake for Eros. They would look remarkably similar from a distance if it twisted and curled like Hypnos’ wild mop, though it hung pin straight around his eyes for the moment, but the subject had been lost once again.

“We have been looking for you for quite some time, Master Death, though I know you are busy.” Patroclus greeted. “At first it was to ask after the potential identity of our darling intruder, but obviously that is no longer the case.”

“What would you ask of me now then? Zagreus has given very little explanation, other than what he needed to have me sworn to secrecy.” He glared with little heat at the prince, who smiled with one cheek full of walnuts.

“We will ask no help that would compromise you to give, rest assured.” Patroclus said with a bow of his head. “You are one of the only sources of information from the surface, which will hopefully help us and not further confuse us.”

They spent an hour or so giving as much detail as they could to Zagreus and Thanatos. They let Eros tell the whole of the tale, only supplementing details that they had been directly involved in. They didn’t plan to share the details of their shared vision, but when Eros mentioned it in passing, they spoke truthfully.

After it was finished, Zagreus sat with pursed lips and a blank look into the grass while Thanatos pushed out a great sigh.

“I know there are virtues to be cherished in all the Olympians.” Thanatos mumbled. “But rare are the occasions that they are made plain to me.” If Eros was offended, he did not show it, only nodded along heartily.

“There are two other things I wanted to bring to attention, one more immediate than the other.” Achilles spoke, passing off the last of his snacks to Zagreus.

“As you heard, we did treat the wound to the best of mortal ability. It is no longer life-threatening, though it is healing much slower than I would expect from a full-blooded god. There is an injury left untreated, however: a broken bone somewhere in the left wing.”

Eros looked at Achilles with wide eyes, seemingly unaware that they felt it break in the dream they were granted.

“I am no medic.” Thanatos began with a shrug. “Rare is the occasion that I am required to heal, as I usually arrive at the scene much later. The most that I could do would be to let you look at mine, so you’ll know which bones need correcting.”

“That’s better than nothing, for certain.” Eros nodded. “The longer we wait, the harder it will be to reset anything.”

“Then that is settled.” Zagreus nodded, nearly buzzing with curiosity. “What is the second matter?”

Achilles hesitated, beseeching eyes landing on Patroclus.

“We were hesitant to bring this matter to you before, Eros, for we did not want worry to slow your healing or worsen your rest.” Patroclus began, pulling the stained bandages they put aside from Achilles basket of supplies. “I wanted to wait until we were in the company of those more informed, knowing I had none to give, but I digress.”

He unwound these bandages and rags- the only ones they had not since boiled and cleaned- and laid them flat in the grass. The gold ichor had long since dried to a dull color, but the ink stain of the deepest blood had not faded in the slightest. The rags they cleaned with were even bolder, the ones Achilles used to clean after he stitched.

“These were from the day we pulled the arrowhead from his side.” Patroclus said, all eyes on him following the path he trailed with his pointing finger. “It was a close call.”

“I can assume it was at the very deepest cut- or the moments most dire,- that I saw the blood change from gold to pitch. I didn’t mention it then, for there was little time for anything other than closing the wound.” Achilles supplied, looking sheepish.

Eros crept closer, crawling to look directly down on the sprawled bandages. His brow was pinched as he tilted his head, eyes shifting quickly as though some puzzle piece would fall into place if he simply looked harder.

“It’s not?” He paused, falling back onto his heels with a plop, eyes never leaving the gauze. “You said it was healing?” He asked Achilles.

“It is healing.” He replied calmly. “It is not necrotic. The black of dying tissue or rotting blood is foul and thick, smearing a horrid brown or green. This covered my hands, it was as fluid and clean as blood can be- just like ink. No blood drawn since has matched it.”

They all sat spellbound for a time, eyes focused on the soiled bandages before turning expectantly to Thanatos, who looked more fascinated than bewildered. His scythe had long been put away, but he carried a short sword on his hip in the same gleaming blue-gray metal. He unsheathed it partially, just enough to expose a portion of the blade.

Zagreus hissed and winced when Thanatos wrapped his hand firmly around the unguarded sword, moving his hand swiftly to purposely slice into his palm. He did not flinch as he did so, an air of calm about him as he presented his open hand to the rest of them.

The wound welled with void-dark ichor, the ink of a quill no match for its intensity. When he clenched and reopened his hand, it smeared a blue so deep it was nearly violet. Patroclus realized belatedly that it was likely the origin of the coolness of Cthonic complexion.

Eros did not take his eyes off of it, even as Thanatos seemed to will the wound away and wipe the wet of his hand onto his already black robes, leaving his hand sooty and stained as Achilles’ had been.

It was Zagreus that broke the silence.

“We will remedy the broken wing, for certain. You have supplies still, Achilles?” The prince asked without turning his head.

“Aye.”

“I think perhaps Nyx will have theories on our second matter. It would be bold of me to even ponder, though I do wish I could do more to soothe.” He continued, looking to Eros who nodded once, hands tense in his lap. Whether he feared Nyx as the other Olympians did, or whether he was frustrated at the lack of answers, Patroclus could not tell.

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They remained outdoors,- or what passed as out of doors in the Underworld,- to give an educated guess at how to set a broken wing. It would have been too cramped inside for all four of them, especially with two of them at full wing span.

Thanatos sat primly in the grass with his legs crossed, outermost cloak removed. He looked less daunting without it, Patroclus thought to himself. 

He had assumed by nature of being Nyx-born, that the wings he had glanced at from both the twins were wholly incorporeal, transparent and star speckled as they appeared. This assumption was incorrect, and he was grateful for it. Elsewise, this task would be nearly impossible. Thanatos unfurled wings to start that were cosmos green and phantom, but as they came to stretch and ruffle like a waking bird- they solidified- Powerful and huge and silvery white to match his once billowing hair. He kept the right one at rest near his torso, the left outstretched to observe.

“I think we were boys the last time I saw them solid like that.” Zagreus mused. His voice was colloquial and platonic, but Patroclus knew the gaze of a love-stricken fool when he saw one.

Eros smirked at the display, raising one brow at Patroclus in mischievous solidarity before he too unpeeled his wings from his back. They were disheveled but no less grand, huge enough to carry a body his size with no trouble. He tried to mimic the other gods position, but could not fully extend the left wing.

“Is it alright if I touch?” Achilles asked, moving to crouch in front of Thanatos.

“I assumed that was the point, for it would do little good to simply look.” He replied, brushing off Achilles’ frown with a wave of his hand. “Do not worry so about offending me. If I am uncomfortable, I will not hesitate to speak it.”

“Fine, fine.” Achilles sighed, shifting closer to feel at where bones started and stopped. When he trailed far enough to give way to only feather, he would retrace his steps with his thumb so as not to lose his place. 

Against the outside of the stone ruin, against a fallen column, Zagreus and Patroclus sat together to remain out of the way. They were not far, well within reach for when their aid was called for, but distant enough that the conversation sounded muffled by the Lethe.

“On Mt. Pelion, Master Chiron taught us anatomy using each other as examples to feel around for which bones connected where.” Patroclus mused. “Needless to say, we were not taught the parts of a bird’s wing, let alone how to bind a broken one.”

“I didn’t know Chiron trained you.” Zagreus replied, leaning to rest his head on Pat’s shoulder. He had tried it several times since they'd known each other, and was often met with a playful shove or a flick on the ear. He allowed it in good grace this time, surprised that the flames from his laurel did not burn.

“I do not believe he intended to. Achilles' mother- the Nereid, Thetis- sent for Chiron to retrieve him when it was clear it would take more than a mortal hand to train him.” Patroclus explained. “We were twelve at the time. The best of friends, hardly went anywhere without each other.”

Zagreus seemed very thoughtful at this, and he could only imagine why.

“He brought you along?” The prince asked after a beat of silence.

“Gods, no.” Pat laughed. “Thetis hated that Achilles had been trained thus far with all us mortal boys, and hated me especially. I followed them all the way to the mountain in secret. When I was discovered, Chiron was wary to send me back into the wild alone- told me if I stayed he would not coddle me despite my mortality. I agreed.”

Zagreus’ shoulders shook with a chuckle. “So you’ve always been this stubborn?”

“Naturally.” He agreed with a grin. He glanced down at the godling on his shoulder, whose mismatched eyes were glued to the haphazard medical exam before them. He doubted Zagreus noticed, but Eros kept glancing back over to him.

“It can be difficult,” Patroclus began, softer than before, “when a friendship born in childhood blooms into romance later on.”

The prince tensed at his side, face growing pink at being caught.

“Of course the worry is not necessarily rejection, but that the companionship may grow strained without saying so. Maybe the conversation will remain light and jovial, but they sit farther from you than they once did. Perhaps they clasp your shoulder but no longer embrace you. They save you a place at their side to sit, but never rest their head in your lap again.”

Zagreus remained resolutely silent, long since accustomed to his philosophic prose, only now he did not theorize along with him.

“The fear is not that they will cast you away, the bond is far too strong to tear in such a way. The fear is, of course, that a wedge will be placed between you that remains forever unspoken; an uncrossable space, the size and shape of your own heart at their feet.” Pat finished quietly, trying to halt his musings now that he could see he might have actually  _ upset _ Zagreus, who sat fidgeting with trembling hands.

“A true friend would not step on it. But do not place it there without offering it to their hands first.” He added, giving a little peck on the crown of his head. “They may offer their own in return.”

They were pulled from their sentiments by Achilles waiving for aid, and the prince seemed grateful for the distraction. He bounced up as though he hadn’t just been shivering, voice bright and loud in reply even as he secretly tried to wipe at his eyes. Patroclus rose slowly, shaking his head and smiling to himself.

Eros must have been either too sore or too kind to ask the prince about his bleeding heart as they bound his left wing folded to his side.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The parallels between Than and Zag and Patroclus and Achilles have kept me awake at night.


	15. Primordial Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new face, an unusual mouthpiece for enlightenment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been mulling this one over for a long time, we’re getting deep in it now lads.

It was an otherwise gloomy evening when Elysium went dark.

The normally colorful evening bazaar was less bustling than usual, with less music and laughter. It was not vacant by any means, but it was clear the majority of the crowd must be at the Arena to watch the king and the bull. Patroclus usually ran into his three apprentices here, but there were none to be found. He grinned as he remembered that only Zagreus’ arrival would spur Alcides into the coliseum, so the prince himself is likely Theseus’ challenger.

Patroclus stands idly behind Achilles, who is picking out dozens of spools of threads in different colors for the various embroidery projects he’s begun already. It is good that he found something to do with his hands, he thinks. When one is raised as nothing more than a weapon, it must be a balm to build or create in such a way.

His mind had long since been in the clouds: eyeing other stalls, noticing passing shades, pondering the strange glittering roof over their head. Someone pulled him out of his daydreaming with a tap on his left shoulder, though his left side stood vacant. The voice came from his right.

“You again, stranger?”

He turned to see not Zagreus, but Eros. He wore his hood over his head to cover his hair, a moonlight grin splitting his face as he wagged his brows at him.

“Are you daft?” Patroclus said dryly, tone even. Why was he not surprised?

“No one knows my face.” Eros insisted with a shrug. “I am growing restless and bored.”

“Does that mean trouble and trysts for the civilians of Elysium?” Achilles asked, not bothering to look back at them as he counted out gems for the merchant.

“Fortunately no. I can’t quite hold a full draw yet, my side is still too sore.” He pouted, sticking out his lip.

“You could always just throw the arrow with great speed by hand.” Patroclus suggested, folding his arms over his chest.

“Might as well be playing catch with it at that point.” Eros laughed, but stopped so suddenly that it made the shades turn to look at his face. He was looking with a comically bewildered face at the ground, as though he was listening very carefully to something they could not hear. Like a hound before an earthquake.

With a sweeping descent and a quick flash, the market went black.

The small crowd panicked, sounds of shock and fear echoing off of the high ceilings that normally glittered with bioluminescence, but not now. Patroclus could not see his hand in front of his face, nor the bright white of Eros’ robes. In the distance he could see the lower tiers were still dimly lit in green, reflecting off of Achilles’ eyes cat-like.

A lone figure was visible in the shadowy fog, hovering gently with an aura of calm amongst the murmured confusion and fear of the dispersing crowd.

“A kindness, not an attack.” A man spoke, tender and deep and layered over itself with a great many whispers. “A modicum of privacy, for there were eyes on you.”

His skin is somewhere between charcoal dust and lavender, his raven hair coiling and writhing as if through water. His eyes are hard to meet, for at each angle their brightness is changed like a facet on a gemstone. Patroclus thinks they might be violet.

Achilles is unarmed, so he puts himself between his love and the stranger before he even realizes he’s done it; But Eros does not seem to share their knee-jerk defensiveness. He’s looking at the stranger like one might observe a particularly rare bird, tilting his head this way and that like he wants to step closer.

“Be at peace, shade.” The stranger said to Patroclus, and against his better judgement he took his hand away from the sword at his hip. In speech and in visage this figure was macabre but gentle. Achilles had a hand hooked at his elbow, whether it was meant to be reassuring or pleading was unclear.

“You are..?” Achilles began, confused but unafraid, “Are you with the House of Hades?”

The stranger seemed to ponder this, tilting his head to the side but with no change to his expression.

“No.” He decided, with a subtle change of inflection that could either be sarcastic disdain or grim amusement. “Hades did not send for me, nor does he have the authority to do so. I will explain further if you would walk with me?”

“Because of the eyes on us?” Patroclus prompted, wanting to look around through the conjured shadows but unable to tear his gaze from the eerie but lovely figure.  _ Who did he remind him of? _

“Indeed.” The stranger nodded with a slow blink of his reflective and hollow eyes, his hands folded regally at his front.

The three of them stood before him in a silence too long to be comfortable before Eros put a hand on each of their arms to break their focus.

“I think it is alright.” He said in that raspy pillow-talk voice of his, squeezing his grip on them once to reassure them. “You don’t have to come with me if you would prefer to stay behind.”

_ “No.” _ The lovers spoke together, unwilling to be frightened away like little boys afraid of creeping shadows. For all their differences, Achilles and Patroclus were as proud as peacocks and as stubborn as geese.

“We will walk with you.” Achilles nodded with a slight bow of his head. “Our apologies, you merely startled us, and we’ve grown suspicious over the years.”

“All is well.” The stranger assured, a very small smile playing upon his lips. “You are quick to defend, and it speaks well of you. Just so, I am not so easily offended. Come.” He gestured with his eyes out of the market district.

Patroclus watched him like a hawk as they followed, enshrouded in a shadow that protected them from prying eyes and listening ears. As they padded down the steps, the stranger floated, gliding in a way that was so obviously Cthonic that he felt silly for jumping to defense as though Olympus itself had come clawing after their still-healing charge.

He was dressed in black, sparsely decorated by the occasional strip of grey fabric that perfectly matched the color of his skin. He was ornamented thoroughly in royally violet gems, nebulous and dark and beautiful in a way that made Patroclus unusually covetous of them. He recalled briefly the skin of the night-black berries that Achilles had grown to favor, and the pretty purple it stained his fingers and teeth.

They trailed away from the final stalls at the bottom of the stairs, walking into the grassy glades and maze-like paths the Exalted loved to haunt. If they crossed the path of any, Patroclus did not notice their approach. It was easy to see  _ out _ the shroud of shadow they wore, like looking through darkened glass. It appeared however that others could not see  _ in. _

“You met Thanatos recently, did you not?” The stranger inquired politely.  _ He is pleasant and alarming. _

“Yes.” Eros agreed, fidgeting nervously at the hem of his white robes. Achilles had mentioned wanting to offer to mend them, as they were fraying. He was eyeing them now, but did not say anything.

“He passed on a great deal of information to Nyx, who then sought my council on the matter. This way, if you please.” He continued to lead, through a side passage in the shape of a mountain pass. Patroclus would forever be amazed at the sheer size of the realm, could likely spend centuries exploring it before he would be familiar with every nook and cranny. And to think Asphodel was triple the size! It must be a continent below them.

This area of Elysium was likely a route for working shades, as it was less adorned with enchantment and more overgrown. The grass here was thick but not iridescent, the vines lush but unblemished by blossom and bloom. They walked single-file to manage in the narrow space, and as they passed each section the vines seemed to close a little curtain behind them.

Once out of the rocky pass, a more familiar Elysian cove opened before them, though still one Patroclus had yet to visit. The statues in this smaller grove were carved into the rock itself, as though clawing out of a mountain half complete. He tried not to tense again as they stopped, as the stranger turned to face them once more.

_ What was the worst case scenario? He was long dead already, at worst he would drag himself out of the Styx again and be escorted back. But what of Eros? _

The stranger seemed to find this location to his liking, his very presence dimming the normal azure glow to a cobalt haze. His posture relaxed, and he came to sit primly on a moss covered stone. It was clear he did so to look less threatening, to not appear as though he were towering over them.

“I will tell you what I know, and what Nyx and I have theorized. Afterwards, I will answer any questions you may have to the best of my ability. This is agreeable?” He explained to Eros, asking the final question in the direction of the Myrmidons. All three nodded, but only Eros sat.

_ Nyx. It is Nyx he reminds him of. _

“Then I shall begin. It is my understanding that a rivalry with Apollo nearly took your life, and that such injuries are not quite healed.” 

Eros nodded, eyes glued to their strange guide.

“Did you flee to the Underworld with purpose? To hide and lick your wounds?” He asked. Achilles found a mossy patch to sit out of the way, leaving Patroclus the only one still standing.

Eros thought his answer over carefully, Achilles watching him with intrigued concern from his perch.

“I grew to suspect as much.” The graceful stranger said, taking the others' silence as answer enough. “That it was a subconscious draw, not a tactical retreat. It was also brought to my attention that you two shades shared a vision of the descent.”

“Yes.” Achilles replied, sitting cross legged, leaning with his elbows on his knees and a sprig of grass in his hands. How sweet it was, Patroclus thought briefly, to see his other half so at ease outside of his armor. “Recounted both of our demise as well, though for what reason we can only speculate.”

“We suspected the same enchantment was carried on the weapons.” Patroclus elaborated.

“As likely a theory as any. I might be so inclined to agree.” The stranger began to hover in his seated position, seemingly unintentional as his posture became more relaxed. “An important tactical notion, and understand I do not say such a thing to frighten: What makes you think your rival cannot reach you here?”

The three were silent once more, in preparation for each other’s reply which never came. Patroclus looked at Achilles, Achilles at Eros, and Eros at Patroclus.

“It is true that Helios’ light does not touch the underdark, but Olympus still holds some sway here. They grant their boons to the prince, do they not? Allow the same to King Theseus?” The shadow explained. “When you first arrived, did you not enchant shades yourself to move where you could not? Your rival needs no such spell, for many fallen warriors are counted among his loyal champions. Their eyes are the ones upon you.”

Champions of Apollo, what else? He tries to smother his first thought, as they are often wrong and not born of reason, but it sticks there. Apollo had been the aid and demise of a great many soldiers and heroes alike, and Patroclus could recall only a handful by name. He did not need to look back to Achilles to know he thought of the same few.

“A petty squabble compared to the discovery you may have made here, Eros.”

“Is it-? You are speaking of-“

“You have Cthonic blood. It saved you when you bled away all the rest, kept you alive. Why do you believe that is? Nyx and I have similar theories, but not identical ones. Their outcome would be the same regardless.”

Patroclus finally walked the five paces to sit next to Achilles, on the side closest to Eros so the other would be closest to the exit.

“My name is Erebus.” He introduced himself, standing briefly to bow before returning to his hammock-like lounge. “Lady Nyx is my sister, as much as void-born things like us can be, things budded from Chaos. We are not the only ones, either. Gaia- Earth Mother, you call her- is of our blood as well.”

“It is an honor, Lord Erebus.” Achilles replied, ever the prince outside a battlefield. “It is my understanding that you do not often take a form unless necessary.”

“It takes work to make a shape of oneself, I admit, though I was once more accustomed to it.” He nodded. “Along those lines, it is easier to be born than it is to mold oneself from nothing.” He finished the thought, cloying violet gaze falling to meet Eros' ruby eyes.

“You said you and Nyx had theories.” Eros said, aiming for stern but landing somewhere around desperate. He stood, walking to place himself directly in front of Erebus.

“Yes. And the investigation into these hypotheses will likely reveal a solution to your more immediate problems as well.” 

“What is it Mother Night thought?” Patroclus asked.

“You were named for another- a primordial of our generation.” He began, neglecting the details as if the young god already knew this. “We thought it odd when we heard of it, as Olympus thinks of us as lesser and unimportant, certainly unworthy of the honor. Even stranger still, your domain and the primordial’s power are identical.”

Patroclus swore he watched Eros pale as severely as he did when he was dying of blood loss. Achilles was at the edge of his proverbial seat.

“Nyx believes that your parents called down this entity when they arrogantly gave you the same name, that our void-born sibling blessed you as its namesake and is so your godfather. A god with a patron god, so to speak.”

“But that’s not what you think?” Eros asked, though the inflection of a question was nowhere to be found. He spoke it like a statement, though his voice shook before the grandness and vastness of the other theory that likely began sprouting in his own head.

“It is easier to be born than it is to mold oneself like clay.” Erebus bowed his head in agreement, unbothered by the need to repeat himself. “I theorize that our sibling simply sought to take shape, and found a convenient way to do so. Either theory has led to the same outcome, so I suppose there is little need to put them against each other.”

_ “No-?”  _ Eros choked, looking defiant then confused then resolute. Absolute, even. “I have been-... _ other _ , my whole life. My parents know this but do not speak of it. The answer is important to me. I will not know peace without it.”

“I do not withhold it from you.” Erebus said, almost firmly. His voice layered even further, a chorus of murmurs instead of whispers. “I am not all-knowing.”

Eros deflated, winded and teary-eyed. It was hard to watch him be upset, and Patroclus found his eyes wetting in near instant empathy just at the sight of it. The tremble of the gods lip was close to breaking his heart.

“My brothers and I-..” he began quietly, eyes firmly fixed on the ground below the primordial shadow, “were named more traditionally than others. When we were old enough, when we-...  _ I told _ my parents what  _ my  _ name was.” He confessed.

Achilles brought his hands to cover his mouth while Patroclus pinched the bridge of his nose. Erebus smiled then, truly.  _ His teeth glint like his eyes, mirrors in a pitch black room. _

“Your Cthonic blood saved you once. It may yet save you again if it can be called to the surface.” He said, hovering closer to Eros and very gently lifting his chin, tilting his head this way and that, looking at his eyes. “We cannot be cursed. We cannot be poisoned. An arrow would be a splinter, a sword a prick of a needle. Apollo would not be able to put a scratch on you anymore than Zeus could to Nyx.”

“Perhaps you should go to Mother Nyx, Eros. The House of Hades lies deep in Tartarus: no spies could follow so far inside.” Achilles suggested but in the manner one would plead. Such is Eros’ draw and charm: it is remarkably easy to fall in love with him, to want to protect him.

“The solution to both your woes.” Erebus agreed. “Safe from prying eyes, yes. But also where your self-discovery may finally bloom, with all the aid we have to offer. And while you heal and grow, the House of Hades can rid Elysium of surface infiltration, yes?” He said, turning to them.

“Aye. I have some thoughts on that.” Patroclus agreed, long since mulling it over while chewing his cheek. “Elysium has little left for you, other than peril. You should consider the offer, while we rid the dangers.”

He would miss him dearly, he thought to himself. Achilles was still employed by the House, and would be there as often as he so chose. Patroclus supposed he could manage to visit with the help of Zagreus, but he was no working shade, not technically. And though he knew Eros would not leave the underworld without saying goodbye, the thought of not seeing him everyday was gloomy.

“You’re right.” Eros sighed, rubbing his forehead with his palm and running the same nervous hand roughly through his hair. It knocked his laurels askew, his crown wreath of roses. Instead of putting it to rights, he merely removed it, which was a shock to Patroclus.

He didn’t know if he would admit it out loud, but he very genuinely thought that the blossoms were growing _out of his head._ _Do Zagreus’ embers not grow out of his head? They come off?_ He mentioned nothing, for it would seem inappropriate in such a tense moment.

A Profound moment even, as Eros meandered quietly away from Erebus to stand in front of the two shades, fiddling with the wreath, opening his mouth several times to speak but at a loss for words. His wet eyes spilled over when he finally looked up to see both Myrmidons with similarly sappy expressions.

“I will come back for this.” He finally said, chuckling despite all and lifting Patroclus hands so he could place the laurels in them. “So don’t go bartering it off at market.”

Achilles laughed, wiping at his eyes. 

“I doubt we could even give them away. Such misadventures you have, it would likely render them unlucky.” He teased, lightening the mood slightly.

“I would believe it.” Eros agreed. With his white hair now completely unadorned, he looks like the twins- could more than easily be their blood kin. 

To their shock and delight and near heartbreak, Eros took Achilles by the face with gentle hands and gave a kiss, full and intentional, bittersweet and kind. Patroclus didn’t have enough forethought to expect the same treatment, and so was momentarily shell shocked to receive it. 

He was cooler to the touch than he would have pictured, not that he had indulged in many such thoughts. His lips were plump and soft, the breath from his nose smelling all the part of sweet musk and clean sheets, but not of flowers. Not roses.

It was over before he even fully processed it, Eros walking back to Erebus to talk logistics while Achilles huddled closer to Patroclus’ side, both of them emotional and bewildered in equal parts.

“It has been long since I’ve been eager or excited.” Erebus grinned, standing more upright. He wiggled a hovering foot rhythmically like a restless child, an arresting display of boyishness from a primordial entity older than worlds. It brightened Patroclus' mood despite the darkness.

Eros nodded with a tight grin, though a genuine one as he stepped closer to the floating god. With a motion like throwing his own cloak over the others head, the both of them seemed to dissolve into shadow- the light returning to the glade so suddenly that the shades had to squint to see that they were now alone in it.

They remained huddled together in the quiet for what could have easily been hours, Achilles head on his shoulder and thumb stroking over the back of his hand where they were clasped. There is a certain flavor of sadness that is soothing, Patroclus had long since known this. Here in the glade with the other half of his soul, he knows the melancholy is not permanent, and so there is little harm in feeling it fully. There’s no harm in letting it lull him gently into a soft kind of trance, into sleep if he wanted it to as they sat together. He kissed Achilles' hand.

“We shall have to find a good place for these.” Achilles muttered, fingers petting reverent over the leaves of the laurels.

“Aye.” He agreed, kissing the crown of his golden head. He lingered there, relishing the warm of him and the perfume of him that lingered in his hair. 

“I wonder how many shades in Elysium championed dear Apollo while they yet lived.”

Patroclus sighed, hearing the dark in his voice reflected in his own thoughts.

“None who think too kindly of you,  _ Son of Peleus. _ ” 

“Pff!” He scoffed, though it was clear he was well aware. “Let’s go home. We’ll work on it in the morning.”

“Or night?”

“Or night.” Achilles nodded, standing up and offering his hand again. “Zagreus is surely receiving several revisions on his Codex entries. I have new grievances.”

“I would be happy to add a few annotations.” Patroclus agreed, taking the offered hand and rising to follow him home.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erebus is not written at any point in this series as a consort of Nyx, only a sibling. He is not the twins father, he is their uncle.


	16. The Exalted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A score settled, if not the one needed.

No good ever came from Patroclus’ brooding, he was well aware of it.

Brooding was a generous term. More likely now that he was pouting, though the tension in his frame certainly blurred the line of distinction between the two activities. He was alone in the house for the moment, hunched over like a stone statue on the chaise while he worked the same pit of an olive between his teeth, his eyes halfway done burning a hole in the floor.

The shades Eros had charmed had all been among the Exalted and were easy to spot. They were punch drunk- slow to move but quick to react, single minded with a tell-tale thorn sticking out of their neck. They had long since been released, no longer needed as soon as Patroclus had shown Eros the source of the Kiss of Styx.

Erebus said Apollo had agents in Elysium, champions and souls he had been the patron of in life. These were not charmed Exalted; they were likely human souls who owed a debt or pledged their loyalty to the God of the Sun while they yet lived. That meant they could be anyone, any passing shade- any bard, any archer, any medicine woman or wise old man. They would have no tell.

Patroclus spit the pit into the bin and grabbed another olive, more interested in having a fresh pit to carve at than the taste of the flesh itself. 

What a convoluted scheme he’d worked himself into, and for what? To beg like a child in front of the lord of the house to be allowed to sit with all the other boys at the adults table? To be painted a milksop trying to free his lover from indentured servitude, without his consent? 

No, he wouldn’t do that to Achilles, not without asking him. There were friends his love had in the House of Hades, and beauty there that Patroclus had seen with his own eyes. He knew Achilles was profoundly fond of Orpheus, the court musician. He had a comrades warrior bond with the fury Megaera, similar in their loyalty to the house and protectiveness of Zagreus. Persephone mothered him, Thanatos looked out for him. Patroclus was not a selfish lover, and he wanted all of this for Achilles.

What he wanted for him was the _option_ , should it be chosen, to leave the service of the house at will. If Patroclus gained a place in Elysium marked with his own name, he would be free to return the borrowed one to Achilles; It would be here waiting for him if he ever chose to claim it in full. He’d been mulling it over since the first day in the market, and now he was up to his ears in bullshit. 

He should have just taken what they had been given. Zagreus had been more than generous with the amendment he had already made for Achilles. (Who had confessed he felt indebted to the prince, though it was clear to Patroclus that it was an act of affection on Zagreus’ part. In the process of trying to reunite Hades and Persephone, it seemed the prince had realized the mother and father in his life were Nyx and Achilles.)

Regardless, they were at a standstill. Eros was no intruder, he was practically a refugee. No reward was to be claimed as a protector of the realm, for it had not been in danger from him. The godling was now the charge of Lady Nyx and Erebus. He resided in the House of Hades to continue healing and possibly to begin some kind of transformation that would protect him, make him more powerful and unyielding.

Patroclus hoped, somewhat selfishly, that such a thing would not change his mind or his heart so as to be unrecognizable. He tries to imagine Eros, witty and sweet, with the resolute calm and quiet of Darkness. Tries to imagine him with his chin held high and regal, untouchable as Night. He would be beautiful but far away, and perhaps it is his mortality that sees such an exchange as a loss- as something to be mourned. The wreath of roses hangs above the front door, cheerfully Cherry amongst the cool stone hues of Elysium.

What boon could Apollo possibly grant to a mortal shade? No matter the allegiance in life, the dead were the wards of Lord Hades only. And though his bedside manner was abysmal at best, he was no tyrant. Working directly against him would bear no fruit, grant no boon other than Tartarus.

Patroclus stood then, spitting out the second pit and pacing the room, taken to biting at the nail on his thumb instead.

These shades must not know that in working _with_ Apollo that they work _against_ Lord Hades. They must not be aware that Eros is under the protection of the House, may not even be aware of who it is they are being told to seek out. Perhaps it is Apollo himself who is unaware of the Underworld’s loyalties, and still believes his rival archer to be licking his wounds in Elysium’s ruins.

That must be it. Apollo must have promised to put in a good word for these shades with Lord Hades, whose boons are the only one’s worth a rat's ass to most of the dead. 

But Elysium is a paradise, is it not? Or designed to be one, to be precise. The shades here want for little, are not desperate for anything that is not easily attained if not simply handed to them on a silver platter. 

His mind circles back like a vulture over and over again to the only shade in Elysium with something bargain for, with a boon desperately needed, a wound still wide open. He dares not speak it, for who among the house of Hades would believe such a suspicion? He would be brushed aside before he even finished speaking. _What shade has nothing to lose and everything to gain, whom Apollo knows by name?_

Patroclus stares at the wreath above the door and heaves a great sigh. The red is pretty. He never favored it while he lived, but it pierces through the monotonous evergreen like an arrow. He decided then that he should like to adorn more of the house in it, in rose. In vermillion and tangerine, in cherry and gold. With a final glance at the laurels, he resolves to set a plan in action if only to interrupt the spiral of melancholy that nipped at his heels.

He does not rush to the wardrobe, but nor does he meander. He passes the vanity and the bath, only empty when their eyes are not on it, and swings open the heavy wooden doors that house all their clothing.

It is clothing only, of course, their chitons and chlamys and exomis- their armor does not have a rack so it sits neatly wherever they had chosen to remove it at the time. But it is none of these necessarily that he seeks.

Folded primly and stuck in a corner is a strange black fabric that swallows the light, both plush and satin to the touch, covered in strange brightly colored runes and markings. When unspooled, it falls as long as a woman’s chiton, obviously meant to be pinned in the same places. However, once secured by a specific pin the material seems to come to life- grasping and coiling tight around the limb like an adder with a songbird. Patroclus gazes at his now disguised arm, painted in shadow from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers.

When Achilles told Odysseus of the dangers of continuing to disguise himself among the Exalted, the sailor handed over the enchanted mantle, saying that he would be prone to mischief if he was allowed to keep it. Surely neither would have guessed it would be Patroclus that came sneaking in after it.

He was more prepared for the sensation when he finished pinning his other arm, both sides connecting at the chest like a spreading wine stain, stopping halfway up his neck. He had never in his life worn anything so snug against each of his legs, and though the feeling was novel the fabric- or mimicry of it- had plenty of give. It would not hinder any movements.

He strolled back over to the vanity, studying the unusual garb in the mirror. It truly did not look like clothing, more like from the neck down this is what his body was made of- shadow and rune. He reached behind his head where a cowl hung loose from the garment and pulled it resolutely over his head, where it too tightened gently and placed a glamour over his face, same as all the others.

He made a quick stop in their bedroom, trying to decide if he should leave a note in here or in the kitchen. Deciding it was more likely to be seen if he put it right on the pillows, he wrote as neatly as he could for Achilles to find once he returned from his meeting with Zagreus. He kept it brief, as his lover was prone to anxiety in death that he did not have in life.

_Will be back late, most likely. I am up to no good._

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As he meandered through the passageways, he kept glancing down at his swords. It seemed that in disguising himself, he had also disguised his weapons, which was a clever function. They feel the same in his hands and on his hip and back, but they now look like any other ghostly blade you could find buried in Elysian grass.

He is following the Lethe upstream again, knowing his quarry often haunts Hypnos’ domain in his spare time. It is routine for him to decline the duels of passing Exalted, but now he did not decline a single one. He was restless and tense from the very start of the day, itching and pacing like a caged tiger too long idle. Few opponents posed a challenge to him, which frustrated him. He didn’t want to stoke his pride, he wanted to scratch the itch.

He recalled briefly the vision of Achilles cutting through battalions like they were butter, desperate for anyone to land a hit, and pushed it from his mind. 

He did not fell any duelist completely, though he did not stop long enough to watch any respawn. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, he did not want a rematch. _Well, not from you. I am on my way to another._

It took nearly all day, but Patroclus did find him two chambers away from Hypnos’ cave, walking with two other Exalted. As was customary, he bowed when he got close enough to them, and they offered prideful greetings and playful jabs as any sparring soldier would. The one in the center did not tease, but still bowed. Flourished and high-born.

The Exalted did not duel for nothing, they did so for prizes. Nectar and gems, coin and weapons, armor sometimes. Patroclus suspected his rival would pass up most material things, but he also suspected that in his misery he was prone to favor intoxication- especially if he spent so much time in the glade with Hypnos and his burning poppy. 

Patroclus reached to his side and pulled out a very impressive bottle of Ambrosia, large enough for these three to share with little thought for rationing. They seemed interested, which made him grin tight-lipped even if they could not see it.

The shade on the left offered up a diamond along with a truly impressive jar full of other gems. Patroclus would have taken the challenge regardless, because the prize was not the purpose.

“Who first?” The Exalted on the left asked his two companions, though he never received an answer.

“You need not take shifts.” Patroclus laughed without humor. He had fought more alone and won, and his confidence seemed to amuse the others. They did as he requested, readying themselves as Patroclus drew Fang from his hip and Talon from his back.

The talkative one on the left came at him first, armed with a spear. He had the reach but not the dexterity that Patroclus had. The lunges were powerful and well formed but easy to dodge with a pivot at the hip, and it was all too simple with two blades for him to change the direction of the spears charge into the other challengers. 

Or into Talon, as he had so chosen to implement. With too much momentum on the last lunge, Patroclus knocked the spear off course with Fang, leaving the shade running _past_ him instead of _at_ him. He was too heavy set to quickly change direction, and when Pat held out Talon at just the right height the shade ran right across it at the throat, downed. _That’s one._

Patroclus went on the offensive for the second, wanting to be alone with his quarry when the time came. This shade fought with a blade, disguised in color but obviously curved like a scimitar. Perfect for slicing through even the air, which made them deadly fast- but they were brittle. They would rend flesh but not metal.

Patroclus came at him with chops instead of slices, huge movements that would be easily blocked, forcing metal against metal repeatedly. When they met in the middle he would push, putting as much force on the blade itself as he could knowing his opponent’s strength was also weakening the weapon.

Finally, he felt the thin blade bend and warp under the strain, slid against it with a piercing shriek of metal and swung with his opposite hand at full force, breaking the blade off in one piece at the hilt while his own continued their course into the torso of the Exalted, downed. _That’s two._

He was finally alone with the shade he set out for, and very nearly sheathed his weapons. A little tickle at the back of his brain telling him that this was petty and unnecessary, that once all the cards were on the table this shade was not his enemy.

But he was petty, and Hector had not bested him fairly.

He fought now with a humble shield and a blade, which he stood confidently with. Patroclus had no doubt he was more than capable with most weapons, having known his fair share of prodigal princes. They circled each other like wolves before Hector vanished into thin air.

_Hypnos’ boon, Slow-Blink_

Patroclus spins just in time to block the stealth attack at the rear, pivots again to counter the follow-up. He steadfastly refuses to use the same maneuver, knowing that using the boon would reveal his identity and therefore stop the fight. And he is not done fighting.

With that resolve, he returns to offense. His swings are relentless but not sloppy, and he does not allow the constant teleports to his back return him to defense, simply pivots his body to change his course but not interrupt his arms. 

The shield gives out after Patroclus took a nasty bash to the face, having decided to break it in half in retaliation. Every third swing or so he chops down on the shield with the hilt of a sword, careful to hit the exact same spot every time. It only needed one more good hit to split, and he seemed it a worthy trade off when Hector landed a nasty slice on his hip when he heard it splinter and crack. It was tossed to the dirt with a laugh.

Hector kept up with one blade longer than expected, throwing elbows when his sword was busy keeping another from his torso. His footwork is impeccable, his posture is steady- but he would need a second blade to block the second blade. 

While he’s locked in place blocking Fang, Patroclus swipes Talon across his middle. It’s shallow on purpose, as is it’s placement, but does the job intended. He flinched back, bending at the middle while Pat disarmed him completely, sending his sword flying further into the glade like it was made of wood. He won’t swing against an unarmed man, but he gladly shoved this one.

Downed. _Number three._

Patroclus sheathed his swords while Hector maneuvered into an uncomfortable-looking but casual slouch, crossing his legs over each other as if he were just enjoying the scenery as he winced and huffed at the wound. He chuckled at the sight of the flimsy shield snapped in half.

“You are mighty indeed, good shade. I yield.” He admitted, winded. Patroclus walked over to wear the first Exalted fell and pocketed the gems and the diamond, but returned to sit across from Hector. He held up the bottle of Ambrosia for the other to take.

“Are you deaf?” He laughed, but stopped mid-breath when Patroclus removed the cowl that had been keeping his face hidden. 

“I have recently discovered the details of being bested unfairly.” Patroclus began, taking a swig from the bottle when it was not taken from his hands in time. He sat in on the ground between them. “And I know I gave you very few details when I asked you to stop tracking the intruder, but I had hoped you would listen to me all the same.” 

Hector looks at him in stunned silence for another moment, until Patroclus gestures once more at the bottle with his eyes, a secondary invitation that is not declined. He removed his own hood, unveiling his face to take a generous swig.

“My suspicion could yet be misplaced.” Patroclus admitted, leaning back on his elbows with his legs out in front of him. “But it has been brought to my attention that Apollo has turned his eyes to the underworld where his hands cannot reach.”

“Your suspicion is not misplaced.” Hector shook his head.

“I will tell you everything I know, and you can pass along what you see fit. There are crucial pieces of information you and your fickle god are missing that may spell his doom and your imprisonment.” Patroclus offered. It was not a secret. Eros is protected by the House, and the sooner that word is out, the better.

His opponent was hesitant, likely aware he’d be required to give information in exchange. He had no footing and no plan, it was clear to the other. Still he was trying, and it was better than Patroclus had done in his position. It was better than becoming another statue for the grove in grief.

“It is easier to jump _down_ from Elysium,” Pat continued, “than it is to claw _out_ of Tartarus. I would not favor you there.”

Hector heaved a great sigh, shakey and miserable, before meeting the other’s steady eyes.

“You have my undivided attention.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re gettin down in it now!!


	17. No flags in hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spit it out, knowledge is power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one because there was not a good place to split the last few, next one is kinda chunky!

“I trust you know the identity of my darling stranger by now?” Patroclus asks, letting a butterfly land on his outstretched hand. It caught Hector’s eye, but he did not mention it.

“I was told it is Eros, taking shelter after he paid Apollo an insult.” He replied. Pat made note of his phrasing, ‘I was told’ instead of ‘I know’.

“Not a lie necessarily. But not the whole truth. Eros was shot out of the sky by Apollo’s hand. He came here because he was gravely injured- a serrated arrow that pierced his lung just so.” He said, gesturing at his own side. “It is my understanding that the insult paid was in retaliation, though the details are dull. I find myself growing tired of the squabbles of gods. Too similar to the squabbles of children.”

“My heart grows bitter towards them as well.” Hector replied, taking a swig from the ambrosia with a wince. Patroclus reached into a pocket and offered up a small tincture of the HydraLite which was accepted with princely gratitude.

Patroclus let him heal up and catch his breath, let the butterfly on his arm flutter off to visit the other shade in a similar manner. He wondered if these souls sought the company of all shades so, or if they were drawn to unique components in a spirits composition.

“Apollo blessed the head of your spear.” Patroclus stated. It was not a question, but he let in hang in the air like one.

“Yes.” 

“He sent Achilles after you.” This was met with silence. He didn’t raise his eyes from the grass to look at Hector, not wanting to see anger directed at him. He didn’t want to see disbelief or confusion, but could maybe handle grief or apathy. “You are not required to believe me, but I gain little from telling you lies.”

Hector took a breath, shakey as though he were going to speak loudly but it was cut short. He could almost hear his teeth grinding, hear his jaw work to clamp down on a knee-jerk response.

“Will you explain?” The other shade asked, in the careful way one would when they cannot decide the direction of their anger.

“Aye.” Pat nodded, sitting upright. He opened his hand and the bottle of liquor was graciously passed to him. “I was long cold when they brought me back to camp, but I am told Achilles did not leave my side for three days” he began, taking a long swallow and passing the bottle back.

“Someone stopped him from bleeding himself dry, but he would not eat and he would not drink, he didn’t sleep- Odysseus tried to care for him but could not get through. The nereid Thetis tried to comfort him, but could not.”

“I thought that a rumor.” Hector mused, before scrambling to correct himself. “The nereid, I mean.”

“Peace, your highness.” Patroclus replied, shaking his head. “I know what you meant, and no it is no rumor. Thetis is Achilles' mother.”

He seemed to examine the information at every facet, fidgeting with the cork of the bottle, picking off pieces with his fingernails.

“Regardless, she could not move him.” He continued. “He is stubborn, and wanted to die there. Only Apollo managed to be heard at all- Told him a Greek battalion nearby desperately needed his aid, and that he swore to keep my body from rotting while he was away-..” he paused, making a distant connection and note to circle back around to it. “Apollo told Achilles it was you that had slain me, and that without him the army would never reach you.”

The glade was pretty here. It was more overgrown than the low valleys and grasslands that their cabin was built into, but the vines were lush and fragrant. The light was greener here, less blue. Neither hue could sway the resolute gray of Hector’s eyes one way or the other. After it became clear he would not speak, Patroclus continued softly, as quiet as if he were talking to himself again- two centuries spent by the river.

“Apollo also kept your corpse from rotting, and from destruction. Then helped your brother finally put Achilles down like a mad dog. So in the end I suppose his aid was yours.”

Hector barked out a bitter laugh so suddenly it made him jump, worried him when he watched the other shade fall on his back, pressing the heels of his hands hard into his eyes. He rubbed at his face miserably, looking up at the equally horrid and beautiful ceiling of petrified root and crystal. 

Patroclus pondered in the quiet of the chamber about how fickle his own loyalties were. He had hated Odysseus for the ways they were similar and the slights paid thereof, insults that Patroclus remembered with purpose and with vengeance only to discover he was only carving away at himself- at the ways they were similar.

And here he sat with the man who had slain him, unsure whether he pitied him because he had known the same grief or if he was angry on his  _ behalf _ because he  _ liked  _ him, admired the ways they were different. 

“Am I to understand you and Achilles are hiding a wounded cherub in your kitchen cupboards?”

“Achilles removed the arrow from his side and stitched it shut. We looked after him for a time to change his bandages and watch for infection, but he is out of our hands now. He’s under the protection of the House of Hades for the time being.”

“Unlike them to involve themselves in Olympian affairs.” Hector muttered miserably to the ceiling.

“Lady Nyx believes Eros to be a lost Cthonic, so I suppose the affair isn’t entirely Olympian.” Patroclus shrugged, watching Hector rise to a sit with the most indignant and irate expression he had seen on him thus far.

“I  _ hate _ it here, Patroclus, how do you  _ know _ all this?” The former prince stands up to pace, gesturing wildly. “Does the market have a bulletin? A cryer? Does the ferryman hand out daily scrolls?  _ Do the fucking butterflies tell you? _ ”

“Achilles is bound to the house, that’s how. The place here I reside in is his. It is why I involved myself so with the hunt, to earn a favor from Hades- but there is none to be had for me.” Patroclus sighed all at once. “Send Apollo’s sight from this place, and he might yet have a favor for _ you _ . I ask only that you do not mention my name. I fear I’ve long since overstepped my station.”

“I’ve told you before that you owe me nothing.” Hector shook his head, looking anywhere but down at where Patroclus still sat.

“And I have offered you nothing.” He replied.

“You are an infuriatingly calm man.” The other complained, running an angry hand through already messy hair.

“You are not the first to say so.” Patroclus stood then, a serene and smug smile on his face. He examined his spoils from the duel again, the hoard of gems and the one flawless diamond. “Contracts at the house are paid in these. It might be wise to keep them.” He said, tossing the sizable rock to the Trojan.

Mid-air the diamond caught a strange and surreal light, suddenly throwing an eerie green in dim fractures that weren’t present before. He watched in slow motion as it was caught, the air cold and full to the brim. He turned around in time to hear the bell and his name.

“Patroclus.” Illusive Thanatos greeted with a nod, taking a moment to look confused at the shades choice in both garb and company. “You used to be so easy to find. You’ve been summoned by Lord Hades. The final reports seem to have one too many repetitions of your name.”

He stood there with doomed acceptance, mentally apologizing to Achilles and Zagreus for sticking his nose in something that was meant for them alone when he felt something being pressed into his hand. _ The diamond. _

“Keep it. Seems you’ll need it sooner than I will.” Hector mumbled. 

The way Thanatos offered his arm was kind, and he was not afraid to take it. Death himself was gentle, but the God of the Dead was iron.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are approaching resolution for Patroclus at the house of Hades, but the series will continue because I am Full of Schemes!!


	18. Wretched Shades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A judgement, post final judgement.

There was a much more formal aura to the House of Hades this time.

Not that his recent plummet into the Styx had led him to a ghostly tavern. No, it was not casual, but it had been mundane. But now that he was escorted by Death and his river-faring brother by name to a waiting courtroom it seemed more-...well, courtly. 

The other shades called to an audience were waiting by the walls, the center clearly left unoccupied because it was Patroclus that was meant to stand there before the lord of the house. Achilles was already there, dressed like a prince instead of a soldier, though he stood at attention. Odysseus stood at his side, in similar regalia. In an odd sort of gesture, he seemed to be holding Achilles hand in his left to comfort, and a woman’s in his right- one that matched him in age.

 _Penelope. An honored woman in death, of course she had been in Elysium all along._ Patroclus felt rude for never asking after her. She bit her lip as though she was eager for the end of the proceedings, with the disdain of someone who had been inconvenienced not terrified.

Theseus and Asterius stood on the right, unusually quiet in a manner that chilled Patroclus more than any other anxiety that had been churning in his stomach by tenfold. Stood beside them, even more a surprise, were his former apprentices. _Had they been involved in this?_

No single shade met Patroclus’ eye, not even Achilles, as he walked the marble to stand before the royal family, his own head turned to the floor. He bowed deeply at the waist, finally looking forward to meet the gaze of those who were likely here to punish or at the very least reprimand.

Lord Hades sat in his usual seat, grim and towering even from a seated position. On the right stood Lady Nyx as before, this time joined by Erebus and Eros. On the left was a goddess he had not seen the last visit, so she must be Queen Persephone. She is a comforting presence, and with Zagreus standing beside her it is easy to see where he favors her and where he does not. 

“My Lord Hades.” Patroclus greets, escaping his mouth quieter than he meant it to. Luckily there was no competing sound whatsoever.

“Patroclus.” Lord Hades nods, though he says it more like a curse than a greeting. It is oddly refreshing, he thinks. In life, so beloved was he by Achilles that strangers and soldiers and passing dignitaries would call him ‘dear Patroclus’, ‘darling Patroclus,’; even Odysseus had called him ‘sweet-voiced’ in the market. To hear someone speak his name with such scorn very nearly amuses his deliriously anxious sensibilities, though he dares not let it show on his face. “Mentions of you in my formal reports have been obnoxiously frequent. And unsanctioned.”

He doesn’t have a good reply, one that would not sound unrepentant or bold, so he remains silent as Hades flips through parchment.

“Every new page, and thus every new piece of information, is stained so thoroughly with your fingerprints as to be unintelligible. Do you deny your involvement, shade?” He boomed.

“No, my lord, I do not deny it.” He replied, as resolute and unyielding as the god before him. The sound of shuffling paper was deafening in the quiet room.

“The prince and the champion were both posted on this task, as was Achilles. A very delicate balance- which interrupted could have easily led to war with Olympus, and yet you saw it as a chance to stretch your legs?”

Patroclus remained silent, braced for more of the earth-shaking deep of Hades reprimands.

What could he say? That without Zagreus he would have faded into a faceless and voiceless shade in the market, another butterfly for the glade, and his involvement was meant to repay him? Not false, but not entirely true.

Would he confess that he sought Achilles freedom? Closer to the truth, but would sound an insult. Achilles knew what he dealt for, was not tricked. Not only that, but the amendment to his contract that let him split his time was more than generous.

Would he lay all his cards on the table and say he sought to be recognized, prideful and resentful of only being a footnote in Achilles file?

“Regardless,” the Queen interrupted with a soothing mortal sigh, “they would have gotten nowhere without you.”

His head shot up in surprise.

“Dogs chasing our tails, we were.” Zagreus nodded in agreement, eyeing Patroclus’ strange choice in wardrobe. 

“Here we are,” Hades continued apathetically, perching a very tiny magnifying glass on one eye as he looked over a scroll, “Patroclus of Opus. So scattered is information regarding your past that we have only just now completed your file. An administrative nightmare.”

“The Trojan War caused mayhem even here.” Lady Nyx explained softly. “Souls arrived in quantity with such great haste that Lord Hermes summaries of each soul were shockingly brief.”

“Indeed. Disrespectfully brief.” Hades scolded someone who was not present to receive it. “ ‘Patroclus of Opus, exiled for the murder of a child. Best of the Myrmidons, unparalleled strategist. Slain by an enemy prince.’-The previous extent of information. Your accomplishments were enough to save you from Tartarus, but nothing more.”

Patroclus had honestly assumed that was the case. That no matter the deed, no matter the skill of the warrior, there were sins that would mark a soul permanently. A stain unremovable that would be unfit among the blessed and the valiant. Braggarts that they may be.

“So brief was the report, that it was not specified as an accident.” Hades continued, making cold horrid guilt climb up his throat like bile. “Or specified that you yourself were a child no older than eight.”

“A generous description.” Patroclus interrupted in haste, shaking his head. “But it was no accident. I threw a rock, it was meant to hit him.”

“You meant him to bleed and die?” The lord accused with a sneer.

“Of course not!” He said breathlessly, alarmingly close to tears. It was a vision that plagued him as a child, kept him from sleep and awoke him screaming.

“Then it was an accident.” Lady Nyx nodded, her brow pinched in sympathy. “One that saw you abandoned.”

“A circumstance that has humbled you but not broken you.” Erebus added.

The gears in his head are starting to turn faster, thoughts racing a mile a minute. He does not make predictions, he does not dare wonder at why he’s been brought here in its entirety. The other shades remain utterly still and silent, but Zagreus is wearing an uncharacteristically peaceful smile, one matched by his mother at his side.

“The prince insisted that your file be completed, and more testimony was given even before this particular annotation was added.” Hades said, business-like as he adjusted his makeshift monocle. “On the surface, the centaur Chiron spoke your praise. Said that you fought with a prowess that only immortal blood could ever hope to best, and had the mind of a philosopher.”

Patroclus wanted to turn to Achilles but found himself frozen in place, his eyes glued to the flames adorning Hades head so he did not ever have to truly meet his eye.

“Here below, the men in your charge spoke of your patience and your empathy, most of all your apprentices there.” He continued, gesturing with a nod but not with his gaze. “The shade Briseis called you conniving but kind to the womenfolk in your circle. The shade Ajax called you sharp-witted and moody, but loyal to a fault.”

He feared he would cry with so many eyes resting on his shoulders, and though his lashes grew damp he refused to let tears fall to the marble. Hope was a dangerous thing, so he held none. What touched him so was his own name remembered by so many- apart from those who mourned only what he was to Achilles.

“It was Odysseus there that brought the details of your exile to my attention, and King Peleus that confirmed.”

This did make him turn and look at the sailor, whose grim face broke into an uncontrolled smile. One that crinkled the lines around his eyes and mouth, nearly mischievous.

“So, an amendment was to be made in your file on behalf of the House. Your placement saw you with the masses in Asphodel, and you now reside in Achilles place in Elysium.” Hades nodded, unaware of Patroclus turmoil. “A place that should have been yours from the start has now been granted, one with no name but your own upon the ledger. I suppose congratulations are in order.” He finished with a nod, though he did not sound even slightly congratulatory.

“Welcome to Elysium.” Zagreus smiled, bright and wide and with a quirk of a brow that confessed his involvement. Patroclus was frozen in place, deaf to the muted applause of his peers around him until it was halted by a great ashen hand raised.

“But that is not the recompense for your involvement in the security breach. The house would see you rewarded.” The lord begrudged.

“Your quick thinking was to protect my presence here.” Persephone added. “I am grateful that your plans were made in accordance with mine, purposefully so. Your tact is no rumor, it seems.”

Tact seems so far away from him now that it forces a shocked laugh from his throat, bewildered so thoroughly that he landed somewhere around tickled. He has no plan now, certainly, and his tears did indeed fall freely now but out of joy.

“My own place amongst the blessed was all I could hope to gain.” He confessed, once again bowing deeply. “I admit, there is little else I am left wanting.”

“To start then, we would offer you a degree of security clearance.” Zagreus said, calling the attention of all the shades. “Should jobs or bounties ever be posted, you are qualified to take them on at your choosing- both in Elysium and Asphodel- as well as visitation rights to the House of Hades.”

“Within reason.” The lord added firmly.

“You have saved my life on two counts.” Eros spoke. “It would be a great comfort to see a friendly face during my time here.”

“I can hardly deny you the comfort.” Patroclus agreed. He could not remember the last he smiled so much, and it was starting to ache in his cheeks.

“And the same would be offered to you, Achilles, should you decide to nullify your contract completely.” Nyx confirmed. “You’ve been loyal to the house, and your rest is well-earned.”

“You are too kind.” Achilles said with a bow, his voice broken in a way that spoke the truth of his words instead of practiced manners.

“When this meeting is adjourned, I should like to speak with you in private, Achilles.” Persephone said, soft but not hushed. “Nothing quite so formal as this, I assure you.”

“Aye, as you say.” He agreed, watery and relieved. 

“You truly have no boon you would ask of us?” Nyx nearly cooed with a tilt of her head. “I doubt a mind as rational as yours would conjure a request too fanciful to fill.”

Patroclus briefly thought to correct her, to say that he was as irrational as Achilles and just as prone to mood swings, but he halted himself. He had gotten exactly what he sought out, had he not? His place in Elysium cemented, leaving Achilles’ own vacant, to be reclaimed at his leisure now that they would not be separated by doing so. He had the night shroud from Nyx, the boon from Hypnos. He had his swords strapped to him, his own armor waiting at home, permission to cross into Asphodel if he so chose...

“A question then.” He began, steady but uncertain. “The clearance that has been granted me, and to Achilles,- could it be extended to another? Or rather, could another shade be offered the opportunity to earn such a boon?”

“Unlikely, but not impossible.” Zagreus replied quickly, purposefully cutting off the great long breath that his father had drawn.

“Unlikely.” Hades huffed instead of whatever long-winded rebuttal he had originally sought to deliver.

“As you say.” Patroclus nodded. “Lord Erebus had mentioned that Elysium’s security is likely still compromised. There is a shade who has been a great aid in my own pursuit, who is sure to have more information to offer in exchange. He is ambitious but noble, and would only be an asset to the house.”

Patroclus does not mention that said shade only has such information because he is technically part of a suspected web of espionage. That is between the house and Apollo as far as he’s concerned.

“He will have to be brought for such information regardless.” Erebus said, not bothering to turn his gaze to Hades but clear in his direction of speech. “If that is all that is asked of the house in repayment?”

“I suppose so.” The lord shrugged, the most mundane gesture yet seen from him, immediately followed by a pinch to the high bridge of his nose. He looks exhausted.

Patroclus nods his appreciation, finally meeting the complete and direct gaze of Lord Hades. 

“You can find Hector near the source of the Lethe. I predict he will have worthwhile insight to share. Hypnos can point you to him, should you have need.” He supplied, grinning slightly as Odysseus and Penelope mumbled to themselves, as his apprentices outwardly gossiped. Theseus had a shocked expression so theatrical that it was nearly impossible not to laugh.

“We shall go to him another time, then, for I’m sure the Lord Hades will retire soon.” Nyx replied, sounding more a suggestion to Hades than an actual confirmation to Patroclus.

“Indeed.” He agreed immediately, slapping a great hand down on the desk. “Meeting dismissed.” He boomed, using said hand to push himself off of his chair, muttering darkly to himself as he walked in the direction of the west hall and finally out of sight. With the slamming of a door that shook the foundations, all was briefly quiet.

Briefly, as after a beat of pregnant silence the room erupted into cheer, and he could no longer see the room over the forest of blond hair and the flaming crown that had so thoroughly tackled him to the ground with an _oof._

_::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::_

He knows not what Persephone told Achilles, only that he met with the rest of them shortly after in the lounge, calm and affable despite the fading redness of his eyes.

It is odd to him that the House of Hades had a lounge for drinking and gossiping, though he supposed he was grateful that it did. Wine flowed freely at the start before nectar did, and nectar gave way to ambrosia- which was stored in unassuming bottles out of performative secrecy.

Penelope had retired to Elysium but Odysseus stayed, laughing boisterously with working shades and occasionally trying to make hair-brained deals with the strange merchant shade at the counter. 

Patroclus sat with Eros tucked into his side and Leandros on his other shoulder, both left vacant when Achilles deemed himself drunk enough to stop clinging and start causing mischief amongst other staff members. 

Said mischief was only escalated by a playful jab made by the court musician, who had been strumming happily with the energy of the room- a tease by Achilles turned to a genuine offer. His green eyes lit up and looked absolutely verdant next to the drunken blush high on his cheeks. It was hard to deny him anything when delight looked so handsome on his face.

Zagreus had brought a lyre from his chamber and passed it to Achilles while the room hooped and hollered. Three more joined the room at the prospect, the twins and presumably a Fury.

They took turns strumming at each other, playing increasingly complex runs that grew as impressive as they were convoluted. As the pace quickened they started to interrupt each other, then overlap each other. The small crowd cheered in delight when they meshed completely, now playing _with_ each other- harmonies of strings so flawless as though they rehearsed it instead of stumbling into it drunkenly.

Patroclus expected it, but it seemed the crowd did not: Achilles started singing when Orpheus did, having heard the songs so many times at his post. 

The court musician had a voice like chimes on wind, twinkling and high. Achilles stayed in the middle, full and rich in a way that only enhanced the other singer instead of competing with him.

Orpheus could not be challenged, of course, but at the close of the song he faded out, likely wanting to hear Achilles play for some time. He let him pluck his rhythm chords, let his rough nymph-voice ring on its own; let it linger in the walls and the floorboards as he glittered through the final note, the harsh _onetwothree_ of the lyre it’s closing punctuation.

More cheers, especially from a surprised and delighted Orpheus, a drink bought for the both of them by Megeara of all people.

“Speech!” Patroclus called over the crowd, joined by Zagreus and Eros in his heckling. 

“Oh, I’ll give you a speech.” Achilles agreed, standing on a bench with the help of Dorian and Alcides, his drink held high in one hand, sloshing dangerously as their peers teased and shouted. They quieted for the most part, even working shades and the maid whispering giggles as the formerly grim guard prepared an intoxicated monologue, delivered clearly and succinctly:

“I fucking quit.”

Applause. An uproar sure to be heard from Tartarus to the Temple, making the words Patroclus muttered to Eros completely private.

“You have plans for the prince while you’re here, I take it?” He asked. The God of Desire laughed heartily, sharp-toothed and full of mirth.

“Oh, yes. Obviously.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot thank all you guys enough for reading and for all your comments! I mentioned schemes before, and I meant it! Apollo is still creeping around, and we’ll be following Eros and his story through Zagreus next! With lots of help from the Dad Lads obviously. If you wanna chat me up, I’m on tumblr @ miraculan-draws.


End file.
